


In Another World

by AngelOfTheMoor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Castiel-Jack Bonding, DCBB, Dean is in a Dream World, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2018, Flashbacks, Guilt, Heaven, M/M, Michael!Dean, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, POV Michael, Physical Torture, Post-Season 13 AU, Psychological Torture, Telepathy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 12:50:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelOfTheMoor/pseuds/AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: When Dean says yes to Michael, Castiel is devastated. He, Sam, Jack, Mary, and Apocalypse World Bobby work to free Dean before Michael can succeed with whatever nefarious scheme he must be hatching.Meanwhile, Dean believes the group has finally defeated Michael. Now, he and Cas are exploring the new romance blossoming between them. But Dean keeps hearing Cas’s voice echo in the world, and the words make no sense.Michael has spun this illusion for Dean to ensure he stays out of the way—because Michael has plans.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Supernatural_ doesn't belong to me.
> 
> This fic was written for this year's DCBB and is an AU following the Season 13 finale. Thanks to the DCBB mods, Jojo and muse, for all the hard work they put into the challenge! Thanks to horrorfemme, who created the wonderful art you see here. Go check out the [art masterpost](http://horrorfemme1138.tumblr.com/post/179695257571/heres-the-art-i-did-for-the-dcbb-in-another-world) and show it some love! And finally, thanks to theirprofoundbond, who has been an enormously helpful and fantastic beta.
> 
> Warnings do apply. Pay attention to the tags. Each chapter that comes with a warning will have a note in the beginning, and because the warning may contain spoilers, specifics will appear at the end of each chapter. Canon-typical violence occurs throughout the fic.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are welcome and much appreciated.

“We had a deal!” Dean roars. Michael laughs as he wrests away Dean’s control of his own body, hell, his very being.

“Get out!” Dean shouts—or tries to. The words don’t pass through his lips. It feels strange, being inside himself while someone else holds the reins.

Michael chuckles. “That won’t work,” he gloats. Not aloud, but in Dean’s mind.

“I said no, asshole. You can’t stay if I say no. That’s how it works.” _But is it?_ A sliver of fear prickles him.

Dean feels his mouth curling into a sneer. He attempts to force his mouth back to a straight line, to neutrality; he doesn’t want to direct such a disdainful look at Sam and Jack. But he’s powerless, and Michael smirks in Dean’s mind.

“Thanks for the suit,” Michael intones. _In_ _Dean’s voice_. Dean flinches, but not with his body. Everything he does stays inside him.

He’s imprisoned inside himself.


	2. Chapter One

The Sword keeps shouting at Michael, and it’s distracting. If he’s going to get anything accomplished, he’ll need to shut the vessel up.

Michael strides down the street in his new outfit, reveling in the admiring looks thrown his way. This is how humans should treat him, not with the appalling disrespect the Sword heaps onto him. Hurling words at him like  _cocksucker. Asshole. Motherfucker._ The vessel is downright abusive.

Michael creates a mental compartment to shove the Sword into, his eyes glowing blue with contentment when he finally doesn’t have to listen to the Sword anymore. Most of the humans around him don't even notice—such moronic creatures. The couple who do shake their heads as if to dispel a hallucination.

There. Something equivalent to a djinn dream will keep the Sword distracted. Michael takes a peek at it and shudders in revulsion.

It’s blasphemy. The Sword is lying on a beach towel, digging his toes into the sand. Lounging on the towel next to him, threading his hand through the Sword’s hair is—

Castiel.

Seems like this world’s version is even more of an abomination than the one Michael knew. Unsurprising, considering that he’s been fighting alongside the humans. The Castiel that Michael knew had been educated by Naomi; she had burned out of him the softness or heart or whatever the root of his corruption had been. With that eliminated, Castiel had become one of Heaven’s most effective and faithful warriors.

Enough introspection. Time to find this world’s Heaven.

He closes his eyes and flies. Oh, it’s so good to feel clean air whip through his wings. He can’t remember the last time he’s experienced such a simple pleasure. Back home, he could never fly without smoke and filth caking his wings.

He arrives at the gate to find it deserted and locked.

He releases a primal scream, blasting the minds of any angels on the other side of the gate, something he knows will get Heaven’s attention. A second later, Indra steps through. Michael notes that the angel’s wings are fractured in several places. What had happened here? Clearly, this realm’s angels have a need for effective leadership.

“Michael? Where did you get your true vessel?” Indra marvels. “I thought you were in the Cage.” He squints at Michael and frowns. “Wait. There’s something different about you. Off.”

This world’s Michael is in the Cage? What a pathetic excuse of an archangel this other Michael must be, to be trapped in the Cage. Michael would rather die than allow that to happen to him. The angels here desperately need him to fulfill the role their Michael had failed to uphold.

“I’m from another world, Indra,” Michael replies, his eyes fixed on Indra’s. “And I’m here to fix this one.”

Indra gestures toward the entrance, and Michael follows him inside.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel sinks onto the stairs and restrains a sob. If he allows even one tear to fall, he’ll be overcome by grief, and that won’t do any good. He needs to _think_.

Ironic, that what Castiel had fought so hard to prevent, what’d helped solidify his bond with Dean in the first place, had now come to pass.

If he were an outsider looking in, he would laugh.

A hysterical chuckle bubbles up from his throat, but he clamps it down, forcing his despair into a remote recess of his mind.

He props his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together as he stares into the distance. There must be something he can do, and he needs to focus to be able to figure out what that is.

Mary and Bobby hurry into the room and glance at him, looking for some sign that he, Jack, and the Winchesters have diffused the situation. Castiel merely shakes his head.

The three of them linger in bleak silence for what feels like hours until they hear the bunker’s front door open.

Only Jack and Sam shuffle into the main room, and Castiel’s heart sinks. Even though he’d known Dean most likely wouldn’t be with them, he’d clung to a sliver of hope.

Castiel observes that Jack’s wings are in disarray, feathers sticking out in several directions. He should probably help Jack out with that problem. Later, when they aren’t around humans.

“Where’s Dean?” Mary asks.

“Gone,” Sam croaks, swiping at his eyes.

“No!” Jack says. “I refuse to believe that.”

“What happened?” Mary asks. Castiel had been too heartbroken to explain the situation.

“Lucifer is dead,” Sam says. “Dean killed him. But to do it, he let Michael use him as a vessel, and now Michael has control of his body. I don’t even know if Dean’s still—”

“He is,” Castiel says flatly.

Bobby frowns. “Then why can’t the idjit just take away his consent?”

“Michael’s too strong for him.” Castiel sighs. “It may not even be possible. In Heaven, it was rumored that once Michael’s Sword gave his consent, he could never take it back.”

Sam turns to Castiel, stunned. “Why didn’t you ever tell us about that?”

“I didn’t think it was true.”

“Still! If it was even a remote possibility, Dean should have known before he made his choice. Maybe it would’ve changed his mind.”

“It wouldn’t have,” Castiel mumbles.

“What? Of course it would have!”

“He was determined to save you and Jack no matter what it took!” Castiel snaps. “And it all happened so fast . . . I didn’t have time to tell him.”

“Dean is in there,” Jack says. “We need to get Michael out.”

“And kill Michael before he destroys your world like he destroyed ours,” Bobby adds.

“But Dean is our priority,” Mary puts in.

The group falls into a morose silence, each of them trying to think of a plan.

After several minutes, Sam says, “Cas, you remember that thing the Men of Letters gave us? We used it to flush Lucifer out of President Rooney’s body.”

“The Hyperbolic Pulse Generator.”

“Yeah. We could try using that. Then Rowena could send Michael to the Cage.”

“The Hyperbolic Pulse Generator might not work,” Castiel cautions.

“Why not? It worked on Lucifer.”

“Lucifer wasn’t inside his true vessel.”

“Still, it’s worth a shot, right?”

“Yes.”

“Now we just need to find Michael,” Sam concludes, looking around at everyone.

Bobby snorts. “Easier said than done.”

“We’ll find him, and it’ll work,” Jack says, meeting Sam’s eyes and nodding firmly.

Castiel envies the strength of Jack’s faith. Somehow, Castiel just _knows_ the effort will be futile. There has to be a way to save Dean, but most likely this isn’t it.

As the group disperses to their rooms, Castiel thinks about the three words he should’ve told Dean when he’d had the chance. He had uttered them once, but Castiel had hedged a bit, and Dean hadn’t understood his full meaning. Now, he wishes he had been unequivocal.

_I love you, Dean. A sword, an object—that’s not what you are. I won’t let Michael use you as one, no matter what it costs me._


	3. Chapter Two

Dean lies back on his towel and gazes at the ocean, smiling. In the distance, Jack tentatively steps into the water while Sam watches nearby. When Jack had seen the beachgoers swimming, he’d begged someone to teach him how to do it. The human way; he didn’t want to use his powers. Not that he had much of them left, once the dust had settled from the battles with Lucifer and Michael. He was almost as powered down as Cas. Speaking of Cas—

Dean glances at the man—angel, whatever—reclining on the towel next to him. A book, _Great Expectations_ , is propped open on his belly. Like Dean, he’s wearing nothing but swim trunks, and damn, that toned stomach—

“I can hear you staring at me,” Cas says without looking up from his book.

Dean snorts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Cas sits up and lowers his sunglasses, just enough for Dean to catch a glimpse of those baby blues. “It is a perfectly sensible declaration. Even though I’m not a fully-functioning angel anymore, my senses, like an angel’s, are still heightened, and they blur together and—”

“Yeah, yeah, being an angel makes you all special and shit.”

Cas frowns. “That’s not what I said.”

Dean bumps his shoulder against Cas’s and grins. “I’m just teasing.” This thing with Cas, it’s still so new, feels so fragile that it seems like any misstep could break it into a thousand pieces.

Cas smiles and says, “I know.”  

He and Dean lean closer toward each other, until their lips meet in the barest of presses.

They’d been tiptoeing around each other for what felt like forever, but when they’d nearly lost each other while fighting Michael, things had changed. Dean remembers the stark fear he’d felt during the final confrontation. It’s all still so vivid in his mind. Cas and he stood on opposite sides of Michael, with Mom, Sam, Bobby, and Jack lying on the ground unconscious. Only Dean and Cas remained standing, and Michael still wielded his powers with impunity. He moved fluidly, as if the vessel he’d brought over from his world had never belonged to anyone but him. He pointed at each of them, and they were paralyzed. Lightning flashed from the tips of his fingers.

In that moment, Dean didn’t care anything for himself; he’d just thought of Cas, how he’d never know how special he was, how much Dean loved him. Cas would blink out of existence, and the universe would lose someone precious.

That’s when Jack suddenly sprang up from behind Dean and hurled himself into Michael’s path, directly in front of Dean, and near Cas, the air shimmered. Without a doubt, Dean knew Jack had extended a wing to protect Cas from Michael’s strike.

“No!” Dean screamed. Only then did he realize he was no longer paralyzed.

He and Cas dashed toward Jack, who landed limply at Michael’s feet. Michael cackled, but his glee was cut short when Mom grasped the archangel blade lying inches from her body and stabbed Michael in the back.

Jack had survived, though he’d lost most of his powers, and his left wing was badly scarred. He stayed in bed for a week, barely able to move. Once he was mobile again, Mom suggested they take a vacation. Sam agreed, saying they deserved it, and Jack wanted to go to the beach since he'd never been. Bobby described the cesspools beaches had become in his world. “Damn right I want to see an actual beach again,” he said.

As Jack had been recovering, Dean and Cas had finally confessed their feelings. Oh, they’d avoided it for a while. Dean told Sam everything and asked for his advice.  And Cas had done the same with Mom, of all people. Sam and Mom tried setting up all kinds of awkward situations until finally they just shoved them into a room alone together and wouldn’t let them leave until they’d “talked.” After that, things had moved fast.

It has been surprisingly easy, even though Dean still feels unsure about everything sometimes.

Dean places a hand on Cas’s shoulder and smooths it over his skin, down to his taut abdomen. He kisses Cas deeply, squeezing Cas’s waist and stroking his skin with a thumb.

“You do realize we’re in public?” Bobby bursts out behind them.

Dean and Cas jump apart, and Dean flashes that smile he knows people usually find charming. “Heya, Bobby.”

Bobby scoffs. “Don’t act all innocent with me, boy. There’s a reason you two have your own room at the hotel.”

Dean waggles his eyebrows at Cas. “How about it? Wanna go back to the hotel?”

Cas grins mischievously. “It would be my pleasure.”

As they amble back to the hotel, Dean remarks, “I don’t think I’ll ever get the sight of Bobby wearing swim trunks out of my head.” He shudders exaggeratedly.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Cas replies. “Of course—” He presses a quick kiss to Dean’s shoulder. “—I prefer the sight of you.”

Dean grins. “Who wouldn’t?” Cas swats his towel at Dean’s ass, and Dean laughs. “Kinky.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “That? Hardly.” He bends his head toward Dean’s ear and whispers, “When we get back to the hotel, I can show you kinky.”

“Is that a promise?” Dean murmurs.

“If you want it to be.”

“Hell, yeah.” Dean and Cas still haven’t fucked yet. The idea makes both of them nervous, but there are many other things they can do that are plenty kinky.

Out of nowhere, a voice booms down from the skies.

_I love you, Dean. A sword, an object—that’s not what you are. I won’t let Michael use you as one, no matter what it costs me._

The words make no sense. Even weirder, the voice sounds like _Cas_.

“Did you say something, Cas?” Dean asks even though he knows he hadn’t. Dean had been staring at Cas’s lips, which hadn’t moved at all.

Cas stops in his tracks and turns his intense gaze on Dean.“No.”

Okay, so Cas definitely didn’t say shit. “Did you hear anything?”

“Like what?”

Dean doesn’t want to describe the voice if Cas didn’t hear it, too. Then Cas might think he’s crazy. “Anything unusual.”

An adorable wrinkle forms between Cas’s eyebrows as he thinks. “Are you all right? Do you have a fever?” Cas presses a hand to Dean’s forehead. “I don’t feel one.”

Dean takes a step back. “No, dude, I’m fine. I, uh. Just thought I heard something. Guess it was my imagination.”

Still, the voice haunts him as they continue the trek to the hotel. Why did he hear it? Maybe there actually is something wrong with him.

xxxxxxxxxx

As soon as Michael had arrived in Heaven, he’d sneered at the flickering lights as well as the small number of angels left. It really was pathetic. After a couple minutes, his presence seemed to fix the lights; they stabilized. Once the lights had settled, he called the remaining angels to a meeting.

Now, he stands in the center of the assembly room, ten angels arrayed around him. Vast empty space surrounds the congregants. The walls and floor emanate a radiant white, their blinding beauty making the giant space feel even more hollow.

Michael surveys the angels around him. Pitiful, how mangled their wings are. Their forms all ripple in his mindsight. Through their auras, he can sense undisguised feelings and memories, which informs him of what he needs to know about each one. Naomi’s here. That’s good. In his universe, she’d been in charge of re-education, a most loyal servant. She would excel in that role here as well, he senses.

Duma also seems to be a solid one. Her first allegiance is to Heaven. He sees how she’d searched for the Nephilim when he’d been born, seeking a way to make more angels for Heaven.

The rest are mostly a contemptible lot. For the past few years, Anael has spent her time on Earth posing as “Sister Jo,” selling miracles for money. Indra has become something of a nihilist, almost certain that all angels are headed for destruction. He sometimes drinks to dull the despair. The behavior of both angels is entirely too human. He’ll need to watch them closely.

“You have the Sword,” Naomi marvels. “I would’ve never—How did you get him to say yes?”

Michael grins. “The man is a sentimental fool.” For a second, Duma’s eyes fill with pity. Perhaps he needs to keep an eye on her, too. He probably should do that with all the angels, actually. Even Naomi. If he didn’t have to make sure he won over every angel he could, he’d send some of them to re-education right now.

“As you may have gathered, I am from another universe. I have called this meeting because we need a plan. Heaven is dying, and it must be saved, yes?” The other angels nod. “I can help with that.”

“You can make angels?” Naomi asks.

“Yes, now that I have my one true vessel. The Sword makes me the most powerful version of myself. But we also have another mission we must fulfill—claiming what is rightfully ours.” Michael looks at each angel in turn. “The planet Earth.” Zadkiel snorts, and Michael whirls to face him. “What’s so funny?”

“Shouldn’t we concentrate on fixing Heaven first?”

“There’s no reason we can’t do both at the same time.” He addresses everyone now. “I am your leader. Do not question me. Next time, there will be consequences.”

“I wasn’t questioning you. I was just trying to understand the plan.”

“There is no need to understand. Merely obey. Is that clear?” All the others nod. “Good. Now. Each of you will be given a job, like before. Operations are more efficient when everyone knows their place.”

Michael hears Anael whispering to Duma: “If he thinks I’m going back to pushing a button, he’s got another think coming.”

Michael directs his most baleful glare at Anael. “I heard you,” he says, and she flinches.

Anael crosses her arms over her chest, but her eyes are uncertain. “Then you know my conditions.”

“You do not get to impose conditions,” Michael snarls. He needs to do something to show these angels how serious he is. Quell any potential rebellion. Anael will serve as an example. “You are the only remaining angels. I am giving all of you senior positions. The new angels will be given the menial jobs. But you have been insolent, Anael, and such behavior will not be tolerated.” He fixes her with a withering stare. “You will be disciplined. Naomi.” He turns to this world’s version of the best disciplinarian he’s ever known. “You will provide Anael with an appropriate punishment. Re-educate her, if necessary.”

“What do you propose I do?” Naomi asks.

“You know what to do,” Michael bites back. Funny. His Naomi had more sense than to pose such a dumb question.

“Yes, sir. I just—I wanted to make sure I didn’t overstep my bounds.”

“You need not worry about that. You cannot punish her too severely.”

Anael pales, her expression fearful. Michael smiles.

“I will meet with each of you privately to delineate your roles. Kushiel, I will speak with you first. Naomi, take Anael away.”

“Yes, sir,” Naomi replies.

After speaking with each of the angels personally,  Michael mulls over his plans. The world back home had been horrible; he can admit that to himself. He will take control of this one, but he’ll do better this time. He will make the humans love him so there will be no war. Once he’s earned the adoration of the humans, he does not know how he will proceed. Kill them? Can he make them serve the angels, relegate them to their proper place in the hierarchy? If they love him, they may go along willingly. He can kill any stragglers. Father had given him precedence for a reason.

Suddenly, Michael’s thoughts are speared by someone else’s words.

_I love you, Dean. A sword, an object—that’s not what you are. I won’t let Michael use you as one, no matter what it costs me._

The words come from nowhere in his vicinity, and they’re spoken by Castiel—the most disgraceful angel of them all.

Is he talking to the Sword? _Cute. The Sword can’t hear you. He’s gone. And soon, you will be, too,_ Michael thinks _._

xxxxxxxxxx

After everyone retires for the night, Castiel spends time in the library doing research. He doubts the Hyperbolic Pulse Generator will work on Michael, but it’s worth trying. Still, they need a way to kill Michael once he is no longer in Dean’s body. Or maybe they could have Rowena send him to the Cage. Two Michaels in the Cage . . . That would be interesting.

He tries not to think about Dean. Imagining how it must feel for Dean to be trapped in his own body, watching Michael do whatever he wants and being unable to assert any agency—it’s devastating.

He can’t allow it to continue, for Dean to be imprisoned in his body with Michael for eternity. Whatever it takes, he’ll help Dean escape.

His eyes begin to burn. It takes him a few seconds to realize they’ve filled with tears. He can’t concentrate right now. He feels like he can barely breathe. If he lies down in his bedroom, maybe he can regain enough stability to brainstorm a plan.

As he heads toward his room, he passes by Jack’s, where the door is wide open. Jack is sitting up in bed, hands clasped behind his head, staring into space. His wings are still mangled, a few feathers hanging at awkward angles. He scratches them against the pillows propped up behind him.

“You can’t sleep?” Castiel asks. Jack shakes his head, and Castiel steps inside. “Do your wings hurt?”

“A little,” Jack admits. “They feel kind of weird. Itch a little, too.”

“They’re out of sorts,” Castiel explains. “They need grooming. Would you mind if I straightened them out?” Jack shakes his head again. Castiel drags the desk chair toward the bed. Jack shifts so that his back is to Castiel, who studies the two solid expanses of black and contemplates how to proceed. “Some of the feathers have almost fallen off. I’ll need to pull those out. Is that okay?” Jack nods. “They’ll grow back.”

Castiel starts by tugging out the irreparable feathers and piling them onto the bed. Gradually, Jack relaxes underneath Castiel’s hands. The work is surprisingly soothing, lulling Castiel into a calmer mood. It reminds him of a ritual he’s witnessed upon occasion, a mother brushing her daughter’s hair.

Castiel asks, “How’re you doing?” Jack shrugs. “I noticed your power has faded. How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know. Will it come back?”

“I wish I knew. Do you want it back?”

Jack contemplates the question for a minute. “I’m not sure. I almost killed that innocent man at the gas station. I’ve made so many mistakes, Castiel.”

“I know the feeling,” Castiel murmurs.

“But if I had my power, I could help so many people.”

“Such is the way of the world,” Castiel sighs.

They lapse into a comfortable silence. When Castiel starts fluffing up Jack’s wings, Jack glances at him over his shoulder.  “You love Dean,” he states.

Castiel freezes. What does Jack mean? Castiel recovers himself and replies, “Of course. He’s my friend.”

Jack turns back around. “I love Dean, too,” he says in his characteristic matter-of-fact tone.

Castiel doesn’t respond, concentrating on fluffing up Jack’s wings. After a few minutes, he announces, “I’m finished.”

Jack sits cross-legged and situates himself to face Castiel. “We all love Dean.”

“Mmhmm.”

Jack narrows his eyes at Castiel and tilts his head. “But I think you love him differently than we do. And he’s the same with you. You two are like . . . Princess Leia and Han Solo.” A _Star Wars_ reference. Dean has made Castiel watch the movies often enough for him to understand Jack’s implication.

Does Jack really think he and Dean are romantically involved? Castiel loves Dean in such a fashion, but Dean could never love him like that. Castiel’s form is male, and Dean is only attracted to females. Besides, Dean views him as a brother. He’s said so often enough.

Castiel laughs uneasily. “You’re mistaken.”

“I don’t think so.” After an awkward pause, Jack asks, “We can save him, right?”

Castiel is consumed with worry for Dean, but there's no need for Jack to feel that way. “Yes,” he says firmly.

“But what if we can’t? What if Michael destroys this world like he did his own? Then he must die. But we can’t kill Dean, too.” Jack’s eyes water.

Castiel places a hand on his shoulder. “We won’t kill Dean. I promise.”

“But then how do we stop Michael?”

“We’ll figure something out. We always do.” _But we always find a way to bring disaster upon us, too._ _Dean saying yes to Michael is only the latest in a long line of such instances_.

“Will you stay in here with me tonight?”

“Of course.”

Castiel remains in the desk chair, and Jack curls up on his side. It isn’t long before Jack’s eyes droop closed, and Castiel realizes he’s glad Jack asked him to stay. Watching over him gives him something concrete to focus on instead of Dean’s possession by Michael. Eventually, Castiel closes his eyes and attempts to meditate. _We will win_ , Castiel tells himself.


	4. Chapter Three

In the morning, Castiel, Jack, Mary, and Bobby pore over the literature in the library while Sam settles in the war room with his computer, scouring the Internet for any pertinent news information as well as lore.

The crew in the library hasn’t had any luck when Sam barges into the room. “Guys. I think you should come see this.”

“What is it?” Mary asks.

“Just come look.”

Everyone follows Sam and gathers around his laptop. Sam presses play on the video enlarged onscreen and moves out of the way.

According to the news anchor, a man calling himself Michael had suddenly appeared in the lobby of Johns Hopkins Medical Center. As soon as he’d arrived, every single patient in the hospital was healed. Cancers disappeared. Broken bones knit themselves back together. Even new limbs materialized.

A cell phone video had captured Michael manifesting out of thin air. It’s Dean, his posture erect and regal, looking dapper in freshly pressed pants, suit jacket, waistcoat, and tie. A newsboy cap rests atop his head.

No. That’s not Dean. It may be the same body, but the man looks nothing like Dean. His green eyes hold no expression, and his demeanor is too stiff. It proclaims,  _I’m untouchable. I’m better than you_. Nothing like Dean at all.

And that smile . . . Castiel doesn’t understand how Dean’s mouth could form it.

It’s _cold_. No warmth or charm. Its blankness is chilling.

“Behold! I am Michael, the archangel,” not-Dean booms. “I have come to alleviate your suffering. To save your soul. I will be back, for I’m your new God. You will bow down and profess your love unto me, just as I now profess my love unto you.”

With that, Michael vanishes, and the cell phone video ends.

The scene moves on to a grizzled man, who explains,“I lost my arm in Vietnam.”  He presents both arms, straightened out at chest-height, and wiggles the left one. “This one right here. It’s been gone for almost fifty years, and today, pow. Suddenly, I’ve got my arm back! This Michael character, he’s got my vote.”

Castiel barely hears the man’s account. Instead, he gapes at the screen. Michael’s words. He had known what he’d been doing; he’d rooted around in Dean’s mind to find them.

Castiel feels sick as he recalls the time when he’d spoken those words. _I’m your new God. You will bow down and profess your love unto me._ Bobby was there—this world’s Bobby. Sam. And Dean.

Castiel had done something truly evil—

“What’s that all about?” Bobby asks as Sam slams the laptop closed.

“He did something good,” Jack says. “Why?”

Bobby scoffs. “Well, I’ll tell you this. There’s no way in hell that guy’s turning over a new leaf.”

“Mom? What do you think?” Sam asks.

Mary chews on her lip. “It’s a ruse for something. But what?”

“He wants to ruin your world just like he ruined ours,” Bobby says.

“But he brought destruction and war to your world,” Mary counters, “not miracles. What’s he playing at?”

“Michael wants to kill all the humans. But he’s trying something different. Kill them with kindness,” Jack theorizes.

“That’s not what people usually mean when they say that,” Sam says.

“But it’s still possible, isn’t it?”

“Cas, what do you think?” Sam asks. “You haven’t said anything.”

Castiel winces. “I think Jack may be right,” he mutters.

“Maybe this means it won’t be hard to find him,” Bobby says.

Castiel sinks back into his thoughts, recalling that moment he’d declared himself a god and demanded professions of love. Speaking the words Michael had echoed in that hospital lobby. He remembers feeling invincible, all those filthy souls from Purgatory teeming inside him. He’d lost everyone and everything. Knowing Castiel would ruin the world, Sam had tried to kill him.

Worst of all had been Dean begging him to banish the profane souls inside him, to come back. _You’re not my family, Dean. I have no family_.

That’s how he’d felt in the moment. Up until then, he’d spent months attempting to subtly solicit help from Sam and Dean, but all they’d wanted was assistance with their problems. He’d had to face the threat from Raphael completely alone. An archangel, someone who wielded much more power than he could dream of.

So he’d perpetrated some evil actions to assert his authority. Made a deal with Crowley, who’d been more cutthroat back then. Killed angels who'd opposed him. He'd needed power to preserve himself. Hence the plan to steal souls from Purgatory.

But now, angels are nearly extinct, and between the war with Raphael and the Fall, Castiel himself is almost solely responsible for it.

But still, even after Castiel had followed the shameful path to its ultimate end, Dean had acted as if Castiel meant something.

Only because he’d been afraid of the power Castiel had acquired. No one cared about him, he’d believed. Certainly not Dean. Otherwise, he’d have cared more about Castiel’s problems earlier, asked him about them before. Not yelled at Castiel when he found out about the deal with Crowley and blamed him for keeping secrets.

Dean had known Castiel was worthless. Seen him for the monster he was. And still is.

Sam’s voice interrupts Castiel’s musings. “Cas? You all right?”

Castiel glances up and finds that only Sam remains in the room with him. He shrugs.

“I know how you feel,” Sam says, “That douche using Dean to carry out his master plan . . . ” He shudders.

“It’s not just that,” Castiel says quietly. His eyes meet Sam’s. “I think you know what I mean. You were there.”

“I was where?”

“My words,” Castiel croaks. “He stole my words.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs.

“I was so stupid,” Castiel sniffs as tears drift down his cheeks. “I was a monster. I should’ve stayed dead. I deserved it.”

“No, Cas. Dean and I were wrong back then. We’re at least partly to blame. But we can’t change it now. It’s in the past.”

“I know. Even though I did some heinous things, I can do better now. In the future.”

“That’s right.” Sam’s resolute eyes meet Castiel’s. “Michael’s just trying to rattle you, Cas. You can’t let him get in your head.”

“But don’t you see? If he knows what I said, what I did, it means that he’s been looking inside Dean’s head. What’s he doing to Dean’s mind?”

Sam blanches. “Shit.”

A renewed determination fills Castiel’s heart. “We will save him, Sam.”

“But what if Dean comes back, I don’t know, a vegetable?”

Castiel crosses his arms over his chest. “We will fix it somehow. We have to.”

 _I’m sorry, Dean. I was such a monster to you. And now you’re stuck being Michael’s plaything._ Castiel stifles a sob threatening to bubble up from his throat.

xxxxxxxxxx

Michael reclines on a white couch in a featureless room with smooth white walls and reflects on recent events. He had made his first move. More mass miracles, and he’ll soon have humans eating out of the palm of his hand. Earth will be his, and humans will gladly accept their rightful status as subjects of a planet ruled by angels.

Taunting Castiel . . . that had been a bonus. One of his first actions, once he possesses complete power, will be to eliminate Castiel, the Winchesters, and their friends. The world will witness what happens to those who defy him.

He rubs his hands together in glee. Things are coming together swimmingly.

Naomi enters, and he gestures at the chair to his left, where she sits, crossing her left leg over her right. “How is the re-education of Anael progressing?” he asks.

“Good, sir,” Naomi replies. “She’s still intractable, but the edges are crumbling.”

Michael frowns. “Why is it taking so long?”

“She is a particularly stubborn individual.”

“Hmm.” Anael should’ve broken by now. Something tells him Naomi may not be doing her job right.

“May I have permission to speak frankly, My Lord?”

Perhaps he’s judging Naomi too harshly. She’s the only angel here, after all, who knows how to address him appropriately. “Please.”

“You have finished the first batch of angels. They seem to be mere automatons. I must confess, I do not understand the logic behind their design.” Michael glares at her, and she reassures him, “I know it is not our place to understand, but I am worried that these new angels might not be sufficient. They are incapable of making their own decisions.”

Why would he want the angels to make decisions? “They are not meant to act autonomously. Their place as angels—our place—is to obey the dictates of our Father.” Not that Michael has heard from their Father in ages. Come to think of it, would the angels in this universe have a Father just like Michael’s, or would He be completely different? It doesn’t matter. As the highest ranking angel, Michael rules over the angels when their Father is absent.

“I do not mean they should have complete free will as humans do. But I and my remaining brethren can make decisions if forced to. Ones that we know accord with our Father’s will. These angels are merely preprogrammed. If faced with a situation not embedded in their DNA, they will self-destruct. They are weak.”

“In that case, I shall make more. Why are you questioning me? I rank highest among the archangels. I have more wisdom than you remaining angels put together.”

Appropriately subdued, Naomi bows her head. “Of course, My Lord. I apologize for my folly.”

“As well you should. Now. You have a pupil to attend to, have you not?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

After Naomi leaves the chamber, Michael ponders her insolence. If Anael has not learned her lesson soon, he will observe Naomi’s methods, and, if they are too soft, he’ll show Naomi how to do her job properly.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean, Cas, Sam, Jack, Mom, and Bobby gather at the hotel restaurant for dinner. While he looks over the menu, Dean’s eyes almost bug out of his head. Everything is so damn expensive. And fancy. Not a burger in sight.

“Can we afford this?” Dean sputters.

“You know we can,” Sam says. “We have a way to get the money.”

“What is foie gras?” Jack wonders.

“Not anything you want,” Bobby answers gruffly. Mary laughs.

“But what is it?”

“Yeah, what is it?” Dean echoes.

“Duck or goose liver,” Cas explains.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Dean feels like he wants to throw up. “That sounds disgusting.”

“It might be interesting to see what it’s like,” Jack says.

“No. You’re not getting that shit.” Jack grins impishly, and Dean warns, “Jack. I mean it.”

“Maybe I’ll order us a bottle of wine,” Mom muses.

Soon, the waitress arrives, and thankfully, Jack doesn’t order that foie gras nastiness. Dean asks for fried shrimp because it sounds like the safest thing on the menu.

Not long after, the wine is brought to the table. Dean doesn’t know shit about wine, and he didn’t pay attention to whatever it was called, but it’s red. Mom pours glasses for herself, Bobby, Sam, and Cas. When she offers some to Dean, he scoffs, “But that’s a girly drink.” Cas scowls at him. “What?”

Cas sips from his cup. “It’s delicious, Mary. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“C’mon, try it. You know you’ll like it,” Sam adds.

“Fine. Whatever.” Mom fills his glass, and Dean takes a cautious sip. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he enjoys the taste almost as much as his usual beer.

Mom reaches for Jack’s glass, and no, that just won’t do. “He doesn’t get to have any,” Dean objects.

Jack glowers at Dean, and Sam jokes, “Why not? You want the rest of the bottle for yourself?”

“Dude was born, like, two years ago. He’s underage.”

“He looks adult enough to me,” Bobby says.

“I’m sure Jack can handle it,” Mom declares blithely, pouring a glass and sliding the cup toward Jack.

“Thank you, Mary,” Jack says with a wide smile. He takes a sip, and his lips pucker as if he’s tasted something sour.

“See. He doesn’t like it,” Dean points out, triumphant.

“I like it,” Jack retorts. “The taste was just . . . unexpected.”

As everyone is served, Dean studies all the dishes. Everything looks really fancy. Bobby’s is the most puzzling—some kind of complicated lobster. “Hey, Bobby. What’s that?”

“Lobster thermidor,” Bobby answers. “And it looks damn good. Never thought I’d get to have this again.”

They dig into their food, and Dean has to admit that this is probably the best damn shrimp he’s ever had.

“Sam and I are going to the amusement park tomorrow,” Jack announces while still chewing the clam he’d popped into his mouth.

“Don’t talk with your mouth open,” Dean snaps. “It’s gross.”

“Who died and made you Miss Manners?” Bobby grouses.

“I thought I was supposed to be the parent here,” Mom teases. Dean rolls his eyes.

Jack swallows his bite before he continues. _That’s better. I’m not looking to throw up here._ “As I was saying. Sam and I are going to the amusement park tomorrow. Would any of you like to come with us?”

Mom smiles. “I’m game. I haven’t been to an amusement park in a long time.” She elbows Bobby. “C’mon, Bobby. It’ll be fun. We old people have to stick together.” Dean snorts; technically, other than Jack, Mom is the youngest person here. She’d been younger than Dean and Sam when she’d died, and Cas, of course, has existed for millennia.

“Fine,” Bobby concedes, shoveling more food into his mouth.

With a twinkle in her eye, Mom turns to Dean and Cas. “What about you two?”

Cas’s grin makes him look impossibly young. It’s like a little kid who lives in the joy of the moment and throws themselves into it. “I would love to, Mary. I have never been to an amusement park.”

What the hell, everyone else is going. “Sure, why not?” Dean says.

“Awesome!” Jack exclaims. Dean chuckles inwardly. It seems like Jack has picked up on his speaking patterns.

xxxxxxxxxx

The next day, the group strolls through the amusement park. They’ve already ridden the Ferris wheel, yo-yo, and tilt-a-whirl, and they’re heading for the park’s signature roller coaster, the Giant. They pass by several food vendors, and Dean eyes the offerings with interest. Jack stops and stares at a hot dog cart.

“I want one of those,” Jack announces.

“Now?” Sam responds. Jack nods, and Sam says, “It might be better to wait until after we go on the roller coaster. Trust me, it sucks to throw up on one of those things.”

“You speaking from experience, Sammy?” Dean teases. Sam gives him the classic bitch-face, and Dean snickers.

As everyone else joins the roller coaster line, Bobby says, “Y’all go on without me. I think I’m just gonna walk around for a bit.”

“Oh, c’mon, Bobby,” Mom urges, tugging at Bobby’s wrist.

“Roller coasters really ain’t my cup of tea.”

“It’ll be fun,” Mom says. Bobby rolls his eyes, but he joins the line anyway.

The line takes for-freaking-ever. Dean’s stomach growls, and he’s starting to wonder whether they should’ve eaten first after all when they finally reach the front. The cart contains six seats in pairs of two, so it’s perfect; they don’t have to ride with any strangers. Jack wants the “most exciting” part, so he heads toward the front two seats. Sam corrects his assumption, though, and explains that the last seats are actually the most exciting because the roller coaster feels like it’s going faster that way. Dean and Cas snag the two front seats while Mom and Bobby take the middle row.

The ride begins slowly, with mild twists and turns, not even climbing that far up. Then suddenly, it jerks to the right and just as quickly to the left. It climbs higher, loops upside down. Jack screams with glee in the back. During the most rapid drops, Dean faintly hears Bobby curse under his breath. Dean has just grown used to the roller coaster’s topsy-turviness when a lull settles in. They’re pretty high, and when Dean glances down, the blurry view makes him queasy. They round the next corner and come to the top of a rise from which the drop appears to be straight down. For one split second, it feels like the world stands still, the steepness of the angle looming ominously.

The cart shoots down. _I’m sorry, Dean. I was such a monster to you. And now you’re stuck being Michael’s plaything._

What the hell? It’s Cas’s voice, louder than the noise of the roller coaster, louder than anything. Something like dread swoops into his gut, and the roller coaster doesn’t help.

What had that been about? It wasn’t actually Cas speaking; Cas can’t communicate with him telepathically.

The cart reaches the bay, and the group climbs out.

“That was fun!” Jack exclaims. His wide smile makes him look radiant. “I want to ride again.”

“I don’t,” Bobby grumbles. “I’ll be back. I’m gonna go take a leak.”

“Can I ride again?” Jack asks.

“Sure. I’ll come with you,” Sam answers, grinning.

“Me, too,” Mom adds.

Dean’s still feeling too disoriented by the voice to give the roller coaster another go. “I think I’ll sit down for a little while.” He heads toward a nearby bench and sinks onto it. A minute later, Cas settles in next to him.

“You didn’t enjoy the roller coaster?” Dean asks.

“I did,” Cas replies. “It felt almost like flying again. It was . . . bliss.”

“Then why aren’t you riding again?”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Huh?”

“You look like you want to throw up.”

“Eh, I’m fine. Just motion sickness.” Dean does, in fact, feel like he might hurl, but not because of the roller coaster.

It’s that voice. What was it talking about? Michael is dead. And what would make Cas a monster?

Dean is the monster. All the terrible things he’d done to Cas flash through his mind.

Back when Cas had been warring with Raphael, Dean had assumed Cas had everything under control. Dean hadn’t given any thought to Cas’s life, calling him only when he needed help. Like Cas was just there to be his secret weapon.

Then when Metatron had stolen Cas’s grace, rendering him human. Dean had kicked Cas out of the bunker, leaving him homeless without any idea of how being human worked. He’d felt sick about it, but that hadn’t stopped him. All he’d cared about was healing Sammy, even if it meant tossing aside his best friend as if he were disposable.

At the thought, Dean suppresses a sob.

Cas’s expression grows concerned. “Dean? Are you all right?”

Dean nods, but he can’t speak. He covers his face with his hands and rubs his eyes. When he lowers his hands, he turns to Cas and sniffs, “I’m sorry, Cas.”

Cas wrinkles his brow. “For what?”

“Everything I’ve done to you. Making you leave the bunker—”

Cas places a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezes. “It’s okay, Dean. It’s in the past. What matters is the here and now, okay?”

Dean nods. Cas’s hand smooths over Dean’s neck, up to his cheekbone. Cas leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “I love you,” Cas murmurs into his ear.

That was the first thing he’d heard the voice say, back at the beach: _I love you, Dean_.

Something about the voice niggles at him, as if he’s missing something obvious about it.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Cas is right; what matters is the here and now. “I love you, too,” Dean whispers into Cas’s hair.

xxxxxxxxxx

Michael can’t perform miracles all over the world by himself, even if he is more powerful than this universe’s remaining angels combined, so he needs to delegate the lighter tasks of “miracle duty” to a couple of other angels. Of the list of destinations he's compiled, the other angels will be assigned appearances in the less populated places, like Greenland and Tasmania. Michael must ensure he’s the most visible miracle worker on the planet. Otherwise, how will the humans know he is their new God?

As Michael is about to decide which two angels he should choose to help supplement his miracles, he hears Castiel’s voice.

_I’m sorry, Dean. I was such a monster to you. And now you’re stuck being Michael’s plaything._

Dammit. Is Castiel talking to the Sword again? Why? Does he think the Sword can actually hear him?

At least the fantasy is keeping the Sword occupied, so Michael doesn’t have to listen to him whining about how much he despises Michael and wants his body back. As if he matters. He was born to be Michael’s Sword; that’s his function in the world, the only reason for his existence. Serving as Michael’s Sword is an honor, and the Sword doesn’t possess the intelligence to realize he should be grateful, that fulfilling his true purpose as Michael’s Sword brings more glory than anything all of humanity put together can do.

Out of curiosity, Michael peeks at the Sword’s universe.

_“I love you,” Castiel tells the Sword._

_“I love you, too,” the Sword murmurs, daring to press his lips into Castiel’s hair._

Defiling an angel. Does the Sword believe he’s worthy of such regard, of an angel loving him so devoutly? The gall to even fall in love with an angel, really. As if such interspecies affection isn’t blasphemy.

But Castiel bears as much blame as the Sword. He’s debased himself by cavorting with humans, by loving them more than his own kind.

But it’s more depraved than that. Castiel isn’t content just to spend all his time with humans. Oh, no. He wishes to lay with the Sword—carnally. Michael can hear it in the thoughts he directs at the Sword. To desire the pleasures of intercourse, locked inside human flesh, skin meshing together, bodies melding into one—Michael shudders in revulsion at the mere thought of it and pulls his mind back to the task at hand.

Zadkiel and Hephzibah. He’ll assign them to miracle duty. He has read all the angels’ auras, and excepting Naomi, Zadkiel and Hephzibah had scanned as the most loyal—neither one would wish to usurp his authority; they both prefer to remain in the background. Which makes them rather unimpressive, really, as far as angels go. But they will obey Michael without question, which means they’re perfect for his purpose.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains physical torture. See the end of the chapter for details.

When Anael still hasn’t given in after a few more days, Michael decides to have a chat with Naomi. She must be holding back, but why? After he and Naomi have words, he’ll show her how to get results.

Michael waits just outside the education sector while Naomi finishes today’s session. When she throws open the door and finds him standing there, she releases a startled gasp.

“My, Lord. I’m sorry; I didn’t expect to see you there,” Naomi says.

He infuses his gaze with almost excessive intensity. If she doesn’t understand how serious the situation is, she will by the end of today. “How are you progressing with Anael?”

“Oh. Um. It’s progressing.” Michael has never heard Naomi sound so nervous. No _,_ he’s never heard _his Naomi_ sound so nervous. He doesn’t know this Naomi, not really. Naomi continues, “Anael feels quite a bit of rage toward you. She claims her punishment is unjust and still refuses to acknowledge that you’re our leader now.”

He tries to remember what the Anael in his world had been like; maybe her nature could give him some clues about this Anael. He can’t recall anything, though. She’d been so inconsequential her existence had been immaterial to him. Yet in this universe, she has the audacity to defy him.

He’ll put her in her rightful place.

“Take me to her,” Michael commands.

“Pardon, My Lord?” Naomi replies, fixing him with a puzzled look.

“I said, take me to her,” Michael repeats through gritted teeth.

“Oh, sir, there’s no need to bother yourself with such trifles.”

“Must I reprimand you for disobedience?”

“No, My Lord. Of course not. Follow me.”

Naomi leads Michael through the door into the education sector. He follows her down the winding hallways until they reach a chamber in the back. Just as in his world, the walls are blindingly white, a color he finds reassuring. It represents the unquestionable purity of the Heaven their Father has created, and by extension, Michael.

Ten chairs with heavy restraints are scattered throughout the room. Anael has been strapped into one in the back corner. When he and Naomi stand to either side of her, she greets Michael with a sneer.

“Are you ready to apologize yet, Anael?” Michael asks.

Anael raises an eyebrow. “Whatever for?”

“Questioning me.”

“Fuck off.”

Michael slaps her. “How dare you speak to me that way.”

“Why?” Anael’s lip curls. “I don’t know you. You’re not the real Michael. Our Michael.”

No, he’s a better version of this universe’s Michael; he’d never allow anyone to shove him into the Cage. That in and of itself proves why he should lead Heaven. Anael isn’t the smartest angel around; no wonder she’d been assigned to pushing a button.

“Anael,” Naomi reprimands her. “He is our best hope for saving Heaven.”

“Who says Heaven deserves to be saved?” Anael retorts.

“We must continue to safeguard human souls,” Naomi says. “If they fall to Earth, disaster will follow.”

Michael couldn’t care less about what happens to human souls. In fact, once he’s finished conquering Earth, he’ll have the human souls in Heaven sent to Hell. Humans are inferior beings, barely a step above demons. Their souls belong in Hell, with those of other filthy creatures. But as long as they have human bodies, they should serve, respect, and worship angels, with Michael as their true God.

Still, the most reverent, most virtuous humans do deserve a reward upon death. They can stay in Heaven with the second-class angels, the celestial automatons he is creating to help power Heaven.

“Heaven is our dominion,” Michael tells Anael sharply. “And the holiest place created by our Father. It is our duty to protect it.”

“Yeah? Then where is our Father now?”

“Naomi, hand me the electrodes,” Michael demands.

Naomi begins, “But—”

“ _Now._ ”

Pursing her lips, Naomi picks up the electrodes lying on the table by her side and passes them to Michael. He attaches them to Anael’s temples and imbues them with his grace, directing a shock through the wires. Anael releases a piercing scream.

“Anael,” he says gently, removing the electrodes. She turns to him, the movement robotic. “Do you think you can answer a few questions?” Anael nods, and he continues, “Who am I?”

“Michael,” Anael answers.

“Good.” He rubs her arm, hoping the soothing touch will render her more amenable. After a subject is punished, they develop feelings for those who demonstrate affectionate behavior.

“Now, Anael,” Michael continues. “Who is your leader? Who will save Heaven and you and your fellow angels?”

“You say it’s you,” Anael replies, her tone still mechanical. Her voice doesn’t change as she adds, “But we have no leader.”

Michael reapplies the electrodes to her temples, administering another shock and posing the questions again. When she provides the same answers in the same blank voice, he shocks her for twice as long.

Before her screams have abated, Michael repeats the questions. Through twitching lips, she gives the same answer as before.

Michael performs the procedure a fourth time. Anael's response comes out haltingly, but her words remain identical. Michael shocks her again, and her ragged screams split the air. When she can finally answer, she says the same thing yet again.

Michael shocks Anael one more time, and he asks once more, “Who is your leader? Who will save Heaven and you and your fellow angels?”

“You say it's you,” Anael says, barely able to speak. “But we have no leader.”

In a quiet voice, Naomi interjects, “Michael. That’s enough.”

Michael glares at her. “You wish to stop here? No wonder you haven’t succeeded.”

“You risk making her senseless.”

“Better senseless than a potential rebel.”

“But she’s no use to us—”

“I don’t care!” Michael thunders. “Disruptive, she’s no use to us, either.”

He directs a shock through the electrodes once again. When he rips them off, her shrieks turn into whimpers.

“Who am I?” Michael asks her again.

“Mi . . . ch . . . ael,” Anael replies.

“Who is your leader? Who will save Heaven and you and your fellow angels?”

Anael’s lips move, but no sound comes out. Her mouth freezes in a wide open position. She blinks, and when her eyes meet his, they’re vacant.

“Anael,” Michael says. She remains still. “Anael!” He presses his index fingers to her temples and infuses them with healing grace. Nothing happens.

Naomi’s eyes dart between Anael and Michael. “She’s gone,” Naomi breathes.

“Good,” Michael mutters. Anael has been nothing but trouble since his arrival. “Throw her in the prison.”

“Like this?”

“You want to keep her here?” Michael scoffs.

“Perhaps it would be more merciful to . . . kill her?” Even though she remains perfectly composed, the last two words are barely audible, inflected with stark terror.

“That would be a waste.” His gaze meets Naomi’s. “You were wrong. She is of use to us. Her grace still helps to power Heaven.” _And she’ll be an example to the rest of you._

He’ll bring the other angels to visit the prison later. He needs to show them the price of insolence and disobedience.

xxxxxxxxxx

For the next several weeks, Castiel, Sam, Jack, Mary, and Bobby monitor the news. Sometimes one or more of them will take a case when they get wind of one, but for the most part, the miracles performed by the three self-proclaimed angels dominate the news.

Why are Zadkiel and Hephzibah helping Michael? How did they come into contact with Michael? Is Michael working with any of the other remaining angels?  

“Maybe Michael really has changed,” Mary suggests as the group watches yet another news story about Michael providing housing and food to the destitute, this time in San Francisco.

Bobby snorts. “He’s building up to something sinister. I know it.”

“Whatever he’s doing, we can’t let Michael keep Dean’s body,” Sam points out.

“God, no,” Mary agrees, shuddering.

A few days later, Michael’s approach seems to change. It occurs in a megachurch. “The following footage contains graphic content,” the newscaster begins. “We advise those with weak stomachs to turn away.”

In the church, the pews are crammed with people. The preacher at the front gesticulates wildly as he paces back and forth during his sermon. “This creature who calls himself Michael is no angel. He isn’t God,” the preacher rails. “Remember that the Bible says to beware of false messiahs and false prophets. He is no emissary from God. He is the Antichrist, and he’s here to lead you astray. He—”

“Good show,” Michael calls. The camera pans to him. He strides down the center aisle and steps onto the stage. His voice booming throughout the church, he continues, “But you blaspheme, my friend.” He stops inches in front of the preacher and wraps his hands around the man’s throat. Wide-eyed, the congregation stares at Michael and the preacher, and the church remains eerily quiet. “I am the Lord your God. Yet you doubt me.” He tilts his head, menace crackling in the air around him. “You are no servant of mine.” Michael squeezes the man’s neck, and blue light flows from his hands.

The preacher falls to the ground, blood bubbling from his eye sockets and mouth. Everyone screams, and pandemonium ensues as the congregants dash toward the exits. The picture shakes as the owner of the cell phone flees the scene.

Castiel shivers. To witness Dean’s form perpetrate such a heinous act, the glee twinkling in the green eyes, the triumphant smile . . . His heart aches. And Dean had been forced to watch as Michael used his hands to take a life.

“There is no need to fear me, provided you’re a true believer,” Michael calls. He raises his hands and flings blue light toward the congregation. “You have all been cured of your ailments. If you don’t believe me, visit a doctor.”

With that, he vanishes.

The newscaster continues, “Since this incident, several witnesses have come forward to verify Michael’s claim. These witnesses say they have been cured of everything, from bruises to multiple sclerosis to cancer. All the witnesses we spoke to believe that Michael is God come back to Earth, and that the preacher's death reflects God's judgment.”

“So he isn’t just sunshine and rainbows anymore,” Bobby grunts.

“How many more people do you think he plans to kill?” Jack asks. No one has an answer.

Bobby shakes his head and says, “We have to stop him before he starts massacring people. Like he did back home.”

“But how? We’re always one step behind him,” Sam observes. “We need to know where he’s going to be before he shows up.”

“There must be some pattern here that we’re missing,” Mary says.

Castiel’s phone rings. He pulls it out of his trench coat pocket and does a double take at the name on the screen. _Duma_.

“I have to take this,” Castiel says as he steps into the next room and presses the answer button.

“Hello?” Castiel answers.

“Castiel?” Duma replies.

“Yes.”

“Can we talk?”

“We’re talking now.”

“I mean in person. I have something I need to tell you.”

“Why should I trust you?” Castiel inquires, wary. The last time Duma had set up a meeting between them, it had been a trap.

Duma sighs. “I can’t give you a good reason,” she acknowledges. “But it’s important. It relates to . . . Michael.”

What does Duma know about Michael? Has she talked to him? Or does she mean the Michael from this world? “He’s in the Cage.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Castiel. You know who I mean.”

Castiel pauses for a moment. “Yes,” he says finally. “We can meet.”

“Can you come alone? Without your human friends.” She pronounces _human_ as if it’s a dirty word.

“Why should I do that? Are you planning an ambush?”

“No, Castiel. But we can meet somewhere in public, if you prefer.”

“But then you’d be surrounded by _humans_.” Castiel mimics Duma’s disparaging tone.

“But at least they won’t be your friends.”

“What does it matter?”

“It makes me uneasy. Humans and angels mixing . . . things weren’t meant to be that way.”

“According to whom?”

“Our Father.”

Castiel doubts Chuck would care about humans and angels socializing together. After all, he’d intimately associated with humans himself when he'd been on earth.

“I’ll come alone.” With someone waiting in a vehicle nearby. Then, if Duma’s lying, he’ll have backup.

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel and Duma had agreed to meet in the student union of a nearby community college. Jack had wanted to come, but with his powers reduced and the possibility that Duma might try to kidnap him in order to create more angels, Castiel hadn't wanted to take the risk.

Instead, Sam and Mary accompany Castiel, staying behind in the Impala with Sam in the driver’s seat in case they need to make a quick getaway.

In the student union, Castiel finds Duma holed up in a back corner booth—the perfect spot to ensure no one overhears them. He reaches underneath his sleeve, reassuring himself that his angel blade is there should he need it, before heading toward Duma. He slides into the booth across from her and clasps his hands together on the table. “What is it you wish to discuss, Duma?”

“Hello to you, too,” Duma retorts, leaning back in her seat.

Castiel narrows his eyes at her. After betraying him, she shouldn’t be making such a big deal about lack of decorum. “I thought we should get down to business.”

“Yes, of course. This Michael who’s been performing miracles—he is not the one we know.”

“Is that supposed to be news?”

Duma rolls her eyes. “No. But did you know that he’s come to Heaven?”

Castiel frowns. He’d known Michael had recruited Zadkiel and Hephzibah for his scheme, but not that he’d integrated himself into Heaven.

“You didn’t,” Duma observes. “He’s taken over.”

“You mean you let him take over,” Castiel says. The remaining angels had been searching for a way to keep Heaven operational, and someone as powerful as Michael could perfectly fulfill that role.

Duma flushes. “Yes. Well. You saw the dire straits we were in, Castiel. He promised to create more angels. But his priority is taking control of Earth, and many of the others agree that we should claim it as ours. Those of us who believe that Earth is best left for humans have gone along with it because we desperately need more angels.”

“I’m surprised any of you would consider leaving anything for humans. You despise them so much.”

“We just believe they should stay in their rightful place,” Duma says. Castiel scoffs. She ignores him and continues, “But Naomi and I are beginning to have qualms about Michael.”

Naomi, of all people? Castiel would’ve thought she’d be all too happy to follow Michael. “Why?”

“Anael. She wasn’t even opposing Michael, not really. She just made a smart-aleck remark about how she wouldn’t go back to pushing a button, and Michael sent her to re-education. He didn’t like how long it was taking, so he took over from Naomi. And she—” Duma’s eyes fill with tears. “She became inanimate. She’s nothing more than a statue. Michael put her in prison, on display. He actually seemed _proud_ of what he’d done when he showed her to us. To let us know what would happen if we disobeyed him.”

Castiel shudders. Michael’s behavior is indeed monstrous.

“And the angels he’s creating . . . they’re a poor shadow of the real thing. We can’t even communicate with them. All they can do is obey Michael’s command. They just stand there when they haven’t been given a directive.

“So Naomi and I, we want to help you. We know you and your friends are trying to stop him.”

“Why not just kill him?” Castiel asks. He hates that he utters the question; if Michael dies, Dean dies with him. But the question is a fair one. He doubts either Naomi or Duma cares about what happens to Dean.

“You wish for us to kill your favorite human?”

Castiel’s face heats up. “Of course not.”

Duma sighs. “Honestly, I’d rather do that. But Naomi seems to think she owes you something.” Castiel frowns. Why would Naomi feel that way? “Besides,” Duma adds, “as long as Michael has his Sword, we probably don’t stand a chance against him.”

“His name is Dean,” Castiel remonstrates. His heart hurts when Duma refers to Dean as the “Sword.” It objectifies him, erasing his vibrancy, his righteous soul, everything that renders Dean unique.

Everything that Castiel loves about him.

“Anyway. I have brought you Michael’s itinerary." Duma draws a thick file folder from underneath her coat. “But you owe us.”

“Owe you what?”

“We’ll worry about that later.” Duma shoves her folder across the table. “You can choose where to meet him and make your move. Recover the Sw . . . human. Then get rid of Michael.”

“Thank you, Duma,” Castiel says. “This is enormously helpful.”

“There’s one condition.”

“What?”

“Should you fail, do not let Michael discover how you received this information.”

“We won’t. I promise.”

As he heads back to the Impala, Castiel can’t stop himself from grinning. They finally have a lead. A chance to extract Michael from Dean.

_Hold on, Dean. We’re coming to get you._

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean and the family have already spent a while at the beach resort. He’s lost count of the days, but it doesn’t matter. For once, Team Free Will 2.0 can focus on enjoying themselves. He wouldn’t want the vacation to last forever, but he likes that there isn’t a deadline and they can stay as long as they please.

Dean and Cas are still avoiding any discussion of sex, but in the meantime, there’s plenty they can do with each other. After giving, receiving, and thoroughly enjoying morning blow jobs, they doze until the early afternoon.

They’re woken by the sound of Dean’s phone ringing on the nightstand. It’s Jack calling, and he wants Dean to show him how to operate the video games in the arcade located at the edge of the resort. He’d asked Sam first, but Sam had elected to get a massage instead. (Dean’s gonna rib Sam mercilessly about that next time he sees him.) Sam had invited Jack to come along, but Jack had thought a massage sounded boring. (Smart.)

Dean agrees to take the kid. If anyone should introduce Jack to video games, it should be Dean. Besides, Cas has never actually been to an arcade. Of course, Dean started forcing Cas to play video games long ago. But arcades are classic.

“I’ll stay in and read a book,” Cas demurs when Dean hangs up.

“No way!” Dean protests. “Dude, you need to experience an arcade.”

“Arcade games are for juveniles,” Cas replies, looking through the books stacked on the bedside table.

“Are you calling Jack a little kid?”

Cas shrugs and glances at Dean. “You’re the one who said he was two years old.”

Dean had indeed said that, during the dinner at that fancy seafood restaurant. Wasn’t that last night? No, it wasn't as recent as that. When was it? The more Dean ponders the question, the more his unease grows. Why can’t he remember when they’d eaten there?

There’s nothing to worry about, he tells himself. They’re on vacation, so days start to blend together with all the stuff they’ve been doing. It means he’s enjoying the trip. That’s all.

“First of all, arcades aren't just for ‘juveniles,’ and second of all, there probably won’t be any ‘juveniles’ there, anyway,” Dean says.

Cas furrows his brow, and it’s adorable. “Why wouldn’t there be?”

Dean pecks the wrinkle in Cas’s brow. Cas’s lips quirk up into that characteristic small grin of his. Dean resists the urge to brush his lips over that smile; he needs to get dressed.

After pulling a shirt out of his suitcase, Dean turns to face Cas. “Because arcades are retro. Kids are all about their phones and PlayStations these days.”

After they’ve both thrown on T-shirts and jeans, Dean begs Cas, “Come to the arcade with us. Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaase?”

“Fine,” Castiel huffs, as if they’d been debating the issue for hours rather than minutes.

A short while later, as they’re making their way through the hotel lobby, they pass by the nail salon, and Dean glances inside through the glass wall and does a double take.

“Is that _Bobby_?” Dean splutters, jerking to a halt.

Cas stops beside Dean, follows his gaze, and nods. “It appears so.”

Bobby is seated in a black chair near the glass, his eyes closed as a woman trims his toenails. “Guess he’s not so different from our Bobby after all,” Dean muses. Cas raises a puzzled eyebrow, so Dean explains, “Bobby told me once that he liked to get pedicures.”

“Why would he tell you that?” Cas asks. “It sounds like the type of thing he’d keep secret.”

Dean’s face heats up. “He didn’t mean to. It was back when we tangoed with Veritas.” _Back when shit got messed up between us. When you made a deal with Crowley because I was so worried about me and Sammy’s problems that I didn’t even think about how things were going with you._

“Dean?” Cas asks. Dean is pulled back to the present, and he realizes it must not bethe first time Cas has said his name. He must have zoned out. Cas places a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Dean nods. “Yeah,” he grunts. “Why?”

“You just . . . spaced out.”

They're still standing outside the nail salon, and he eyes Bobby again. Hopefully, he hasn't noticed them; if Bobby knows he was seen here, things might get awkward.

“I’m good,” Dean says as he resumes walking. Cas removes his hand from Dean’s shoulder and links it with one of Dean’s. Their hands remain clasped together as they walk outside and hike the resort’s pathways toward the arcade.

At one point, they pass by a man in his sixties. He stares at their interlaced hands and scowls. Dean glares right back until the man flinches and scurries away.

“Fuckin’ homophobic assholes,” Dean mutters underneath his breath.

“Ignore him,” Cas urges. “We don’t know him. Why should we care what he thinks of us?”

“True.” Cas squeezes Dean’s hand and smiles, and Dean feels the tension leave his shoulders.

The arcade turns out to be little more than a wooden shed. Disappointing. But when they step inside and Dean sees Jack beaming, vibrating with excitement, he can’t help but smile himself.

“I exchanged a twenty-dollar bill for some change,” Jack announces as he shakes a cheap white plastic cup filled with quarters.

“Good thinking,” Dean says.

“I wanted to get started, but I decided to wait. To be polite.” Somehow, Jack’s grin grows even wider. “They all look so fun! I don’t know which game to try first.”

“Gotta let you know, man, this place is kinda small. A real arcade would be twenty times this size. Probably even have colorful lights on the ceiling. And be a little louder.” Seriously, it’s dead silent in here. Not even any background noise coming from the games.

Dean surveys the seven consoles crammed into the building and heads toward one in the center. “Let’s begin with Pac-man. It’s one of the best.” Jack follows Dean to the black machine, but Cas lingers in the doorway. “Cas? You coming?” Dean calls.

“I think I’ll just watch,” Cas replies.

“You can’t see the game from there.”

Cas’s eyes twinkle. “I like what I see from here.”

Jack looks thoughtful. “Are you talking about Dean’s butt? I have noticed you look at it a lot—”

Dean swats Jack’s arm. “Stop it!” Dean’s sure his cheeks are just as red as Cas’s.

“I assure you that it is nothing so lewd,” Cas protests.

“Whatever,” Dean says. To Jack, he adds, “Ignore the weirdo.” He inserts two quarters into the slot, and the game’s music starts playing.

Jack observes Dean as he maneuvers the character on the screen and levels up a gajillion times.

“So the point is to eat those dots? Why?” Jack asks. His voice disrupts Dean’s concentration, and he gets hit by one of the ghosts. “Game Over” flashes onto the screen.

“Dammit, Jack,” Dean mutters. “You made me lose.”

“Sorry.” Jack gives him a penitent look, eyes mournful, as if he’s just broken something valuable.

Hell, Dean can’t be annoyed at Jack with him looking like that. “Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal. And yeah, you want to eat the dots. I don’t know why; it’s just how the game works. But if one of the ghosts gets you, you die.”

“What are the ghosts?”

“You saw that thing that bumped into Pac-man?” Jack nods. “That’s a ghost. There are four of them to look out for.”

“Okay.”

“You wanna try?”

Jack beams. “Yes.”

Dean switches places with Jack and glances back at Cas. A dopey, fond smile adorns Cas’s lips. Dean’s about to tease him about it when Cas’s voice roars in his ears. The words are so loud that it feels like they’re stabbing into his brain.

_Hold on, Dean. We’re coming to get you._

Ears ringing, Dean clutches his head and falls to his knees.

“Dean! Are you all right?” He barely hears Cas’s voice over the thunderous reverberation of the words from some other, disembodied Cas.

A blinding light flashes, and when it fades, things are eerily silent. Cas and Jack are crouched on either side of him. Someone’s groaning loudly. _He’s_ groaning loudly.

“Huh?” Dean mumbles.

“I asked if you were all right,” Cas repeats.

“Yeah. I think so,” Dean manages.

“Clearly, you’re not,” Cas says sharply. “What happened?”

“Dunno,” Dean coughs as he allows Jack to help him to his feet. “I heard something.”

“What?”

Dean doesn’t want to say. He might sound like a lunatic. “I don’t know how to describe it. Whatever, it’s not a big deal.”

Dean thinks they should go back to what they were doing and tells Jack to give Pac-man another go. But Jack and Cas insist he return to his room and rest, and they won’t take no for an answer.

Back in the hotel room, Dean lies down and closes his eyes. He’s actually glad to have a chance to contemplate the odd things he’s been hearing. They’re always in Cas’s voice, but Cas is never talking.

What does it mean?

xxxxxxxxxx

Michael hears that abomination again. Castiel. Addressing the Sword.

_Hold on, Dean. We’re coming to get you._

Why is Castiel talking to the Sword? There had always been something wrong with him, at least in Michael’s native world, but the stupidity of this world’s Castiel transcends anything he could have predicted.

Just what does Castiel mean, anyway? What information does he think he has that would allow him to get anywhere near the Sword? There’s no way he could have any knowledge about Michael’s plans. Not unless one of the other angels is a traitor, and that’s not possible. He’d seen their faces after taking them to Anael’s cell. Witnessed their horror, how they were petrified by her paralyzed state. Her grace is still present, but she may as well not be alive.

No one’s questioning him about the angels he’s creating, either. They’ve come to see the advantage of such angels. Because of those angels, Heaven has stabilized, and they’ll never have to defend their supremacy. The new angels know their role, and they’re biologically incapable of disobedience or discontent. Unlike Anael, they’d never complain about any assignment, even one as small as pushing a button.

Best of all, for Michael at least, is that they’re programmed to prioritize his wishes over all others. So there’s no way anyone, angel or human, could turn them against him.

And soon, the humans will know their place. Their reverence for him will render them subservient. Those who don’t fall in line will be put down. Michael’s been monitoring the mood on Earth after he smote that preacher accusing him of being the Antichrist. Most religious people view the incident as a sign that Michael does represent God and His agenda. It won’t be long before he wins over the majority of the human population, and the outliers, like the Sword’s family and friends, will be eviscerated. Michael might not even have to do it himself; no doubt the faithful will be eager to fulfill their duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Michael tortures Anael/Sister Jo during re-education.


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: mental torture, brief suicidal ideation. See the end of the chapter for more details.

Castiel doesn’t understand the logic behind Michael’s itinerary, or why Michael even needs an itinerary. Is it random, or is there a method behind it?

Not that it matters. What matters is stopping whatever Michael is up to and saving Dean.

Rowena has agreed to cast the spell to send Michael to the Cage, and Charlie, who’s been spending most of her time with Rowena, insisted on coming to help.

They choose to confront Michael at a church not far from Lebanon, where they arrive at four a.m. Castiel drenches the stage in holy oil while Mary, Jack, and Charlie pour it along the rest of the floor, around the pews, in front of the entrance, and in all the corners. Bobby readies the weapons; they will probably need them. Rowena practices the spell under her breath while Sam reviews how to operate the Hyperbolic Pulse Generator and draws the sigil in blood on a door behind the altar.

They finish just in time before anyone is due to arrive. They settle in nooks and crannies, but to be safe, Charlie—who's been taking lessons from Rowena—casts a spell to hide them from sight.

When the middle-aged preacher takes his place at the podium, he draws on his reading glasses and opens up the Bible.

“Today, I would like to tackle the subject of miracles,” the preacher begins. “As we all know, they’ve been in the news recently. A creature claiming to be the angel Michael has been working with two associates to perform miracles everywhere.” At the mention of Michael, several people whip out their phones and point them toward the preacher. “Signs and wonders. Accomplished without tricks. So here today, I proclaim my faith in the archangel Michael as the true servant of the Lord our God.”

Had Michael foreseen that this particular preacher would pledge himself to Michael on this day? Is that why he’d chosen to visit this church now?

Michael materializes next to the preacher and lays a hand on his shoulder. He pastes on that chilling, remote smile Castiel could never imagine Dean forming of his own volition, while his eyes gleam as if savoring the triumph.

“Good man,” Michael booms. His voice sounds even deeper than Dean’s, and more smugly self-assured. “Take off those glasses.”

The preacher folds his glasses and drops them on the podium. He eyes the Bible and gasps. “I can read it! It’s a miracle!”

“Truly.” Michael turns to the congregation. “Remove your glasses, your hearing aids.” The parishioners obey and shout in glee. Michael raises his hands with an air of magnanimity and proclaims, “All your ailments have been cured.”

“My cold is gone! I can breathe!” a young woman exclaims.

Charlie slinks out from a storage closet and pulls the fire alarm. Startled, everyone glances around.

Castiel kneels and touches a lighter to a puddle of holy oil nearby. Fire springs up on the stage, surrounding Michael, whose eyes widen for a split second.

“Fire!” Bobby shouts from the back. “Everyone out!”

Bobby and Charlie guide the shrieking congregation out of the church. Michael throws his head back and laughs. It’s the most disturbing thing Castiel has ever heard, and the fact that the sound comes from Dean’s mouth renders it even more troubling.

“Do you really think this is going to stop me?” Michael thunders as Castiel, Mary, and Jack step into Michael’s line of sight. Their job is to distract Michael while Sam and Rowena perform their parts of the spell.

“You’re trapped,” Mary points out.

Michael chuckles. “What of it? You’re not going to kill me.”

“We can still stop you.”

“You think I’m powerless behind these flames?” Michael casts a hand to the right, and Mary’s body crashes into the wall then flops to the floor.

“Mary!” Jack yells, dashing over and crouching beside her. “She’s breathing. I think I can wake her up.”

“Jack, don’t—” Castiel starts. Jack barely has any power left; he might lose all of it if he uses too much to bring Mary back to consciousness.

“You’re pathetic. Disgusting. An abomination,” Michael declares. He cackles, and with an easy gesture of his hand, slams Jack’s face into the ground.

“You—” Castiel fumes. Behind Michael, he observes Sam reach behind himself with his free hand, presumably to press on the sigil he’d painted on the door. Rowena’s mouth moves as she recites the spell. The Hyperbolic Pulse Generator begins to vibrate in Sam’s hand.

Suddenly, Michael’s body flashes, a blinding white and blue light overtaking his form and burning Castiel’s eyes.

But when the light fades a minute later, Michael appears unaffected. He chuckles and spins around to face Sam and Rowena. “Did you really think that would work?” He hurls Sam and Rowena toward opposite walls, and upon impact, their unconscious bodies slide to the floor.

“I will punish all of you in due time. Make you suffer. But Castiel, I’d like to start with you. You’re not a mud monkey like these other fools. Or descended from one. You should know better. You are the sorriest piece of filth I’ve ever seen.” Michael takes his coat and slaps it on the fire until a thin line fizzes out. He tosses the jacket aside, steps through the narrow opening, and gazes straight into Castiel’s eyes. Striding forward, he wraps one hand around Castiel’s throat and shoves him against the wall.

Castiel can’t breathe, and those _eyes_ , Dean’s yet not Dean’s, bore into his, holding him there, and he can’t look away, he can’t even _move_ —

His mind is blank, but it’s more than that, it feels like his brain is shivering.

“Dean—” he whimpers.

“He’s not in here,” Michael states.

“Dean, you’re in there, I know it, please—” Castiel doesn’t know what he’s pleading for, or why, but Dean, and his love for Dean, flare up and consume something in his essence, his grace.

“You really are in love with the Sword,” Michael marvels, lip curling in disgust.

“His name is Dean,” Castiel rasps.

“His name is irrelevant. You’re a perverse creature, you know that?”

Michael squeezes Castiel’s throat and presses the palm of his other hand to Castiel’s temple.

The pain Castiel experiences isn’t like anything he’s felt before. It’s crushing, pounding, debilitating. All numb and black. Everything narrows to a pinpoint—Michael’s grace pouring from Dean’s eyes.

Images flash in his mind’s eye. They fill him with shame.

_He ingests all the souls from Purgatory. Power courses through his veins, and it’s intoxicating._

_He steps inside a church, declares himself God, even has the gall to remake the stained glass window in his own image._

_Sits in judgment upon the world. Kills those found wanting._

_Sleeps in a gas station, graceless, unwanted. Tossed out by those he’d thought were his friends. An outcast, as is only right._

_Angels fall like stars._

_Rachel dies by his hand._

_Balthazar dies by his hand._

_With every transgression, there’s regret, yes, but with each blow, power thrums through his grace. He can’t get enough of that feeling._

_To be in control. To do as he wishes, without restraint._

_He’s unclean._

_He’s rotten,_ rotten.

_He cowers in the knowledge._

_But what he witnesses next breaks him all over again._

_Naomi forces him to kill Dean’s form. He can’t. She won’t stop hounding him until he does it. Then again. Again. And again. Until he loses count, until he can finally stab Dean without hesitation._

_In Lucifer’s crypt, he beats Dean until his face is a bloody pulp, dizzied by the constant shift in awareness between Naomi’s office and the scene._

_“I need you,” Dean beseeches._

_Castiel had been so close to murdering Dean, but he drops the blade. Dean is safe._

_Barely._

_He’s poised, blade at the ready, about to stab Dean. The adrenaline flows through his being, the feeling of omnipotence, the ability to finally conquer what’d been a weakness, his regard for a paltry human, and finish him._

_He’d experienced all that, and every time Naomi called him back to her, those sensations had grown stronger._

_But Dean’s words had pierced through that armor, reignited that surge of love. And he’d stopped._

_Barely._

_He’d almost killed Dean._ **_He’d almost killed Dean._ **

“Really?” Castiel hears Michael scoff. " _That’s_ what you regret the most?”

Castiel’s world is guilt. Guilt and pain and burning and darkness.

“I deserve to die,” Castiel croaks. His draws his angel blade, gripping it tightly and pointing it at his own stomach. “I should kill myself,” he whispers through trembling lips.

“Yes,” Michael purrs. Dean’s green eyes hold his, but without their usual friendliness. They’re not Dean’s eyes; they’re Michael’s, and they’re hard, steely, impenetrable. Spurring him on. Dean’s eyes spur him on.

Through the torn fabric of his shirt, he presses the tip against his flesh, the susurrus of the metal against his skin a sensation like salvation.

“No!” someone shouts. The voice is familiar, but Castiel can’t place it. Everything around him has faded into the background, and his mind stays fixated on the being in front of him. Michael. Dean. Michael.

Michael goes flying through the air, and Castiel sinks to the ground. The angel blade slips from his fingers and clanks against the wooden floor. A fraction of Castiel’s vision returns, but everything looks warped, as if he’s viewing the world in a funhouse mirror deep underwater. In the bubble, Castiel is dimly aware of watching Jack and Michael battle on the grace plane. With each movement, their wings ripple, and their grace shimmers, periodically exuding sparks.

Jack’s hurled toward the other side of the church, but he lands on his feet. His eyes glow gold as he wields his power, streams of gold light directed at Michael through his fingertips. Michael ducks and shoots his grace at Jack, but the attack barely ruffles his feathers, and Jack stands strong, determined. Michael extends his wings in a display of dominance, every feather perfectly in place, and sneers. With his grace, Jack slashes at both wings, and Michael hisses.

“I will destroy you, boy,” Michael spits.

Castiel tries to stand up, but he can’t. Jack’s form ripples with the vastness of his power, which he appears to have regained in full. As Jack’s grace rains down upon Michael, blows glance off of his grace, tiny holes materializing in the emanant form not on the earthly plane. Michael’s countermoves bounce off of Jack’s grace.

Michael turns to Castiel and hits him with a mighty swathe of grace. Castiel feels Michael’s force yank the feathers from his wings, and he yelps as what’s left of his vitality starts to seep out of him.

“Leave him alone!” Jack shouts. Michael tosses another shot of grace toward Castiel, but Jack jumps in front of Castiel this time. He moans as the hit saps away his freshly rejuvenated grace.

“Jack,” Castiel gasps as he crawls toward him. Michael stalks forward, raises his blade, and aims it at Jack’s neck.

“Hey!” Charlie yells from the church entrance. Bobby appears beside her and runs forward with a raised angel blade.

“I will see you again soon,” Michael intones, smirking.

Then he’s gone.

Bobby stops short, lowering his blade. “Surprised he didn’t kill us,” Bobby says, eyes wide.

“He wants us to suffer,” Castiel manages. “He . . . ” Michael wants them to continue agonizing over Dean’s captivity. Prolong that, then torture them some other time.

On the other side of the church, Sam regains consciousness with a gasp, and Charlie goes to check on Mary and Rowena. Bobby douses what remains of the holy fire.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks Jack, wincing as he sits up and leans against the wall.

“I got the rest of my power back and lost it,” Jack says mournfully.

“I’m sorry.”

Jack clasps his hands around his raised knee and shrugs, grinning tentatively. “It’s okay. I’d rather lose it and have you alive.”

Castiel smiles back. He reaches for Jack and wraps his arms around him. “I love you,” he murmurs. _I love you, son._

“I love you, too, Father,” Jack says softly.

Castiel pulls back and studies Jack. “Father?”

Jack glances down, abashed. “I chose you. Before. It was always you.”

His heart swells with affection—and protectiveness. Next time they confront Michael, they shouldn’t bring Jack. They got lucky today, but they may not be so fortunate in the future. Castiel can’t lose Jack. He’s already lost too much.

xxxxxxxxxxx

_“Dean,” Cas begs. The desperation in his voice breaks Dean’s heart. He would give anything to rescue Cas from the excruciating pain he must be enduring._

_Dean frantically looks around for Cas, but he’s surrounded by nothing but darkness except for the ominous shadows in the corners._

_“Dean, you’re in there, I know it, please—”_

_“Cas!” Dean shouts. “I’m here!” He quietly repeats the declaration: “I’m here.” He stalks forward, peering into the darkness, but it continues to envelop him, propagating with every step he takes._

_“What the fuck is going on?” Dean mutters to himself. “Cas!” he calls. “Where are you?”_

Dean’s eyes fly open, meeting a darkness that pales in comparison to the one he’s just escaped.

Dean rolls onto his side and faces Cas, who’s sound asleep. He skims his fingertips along the contours of Cas’s neck, seeking his pulse. Its strong cadence soothes him. Cas is fine.

So why is he still drenched in panic?

Something feels deeply wrong.

It was just a nightmare, Dean tells himself. The dream doesn’t mean anything. Except that he loves Cas. Which, duh.

He closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep, but to no avail. He sidles in closer to Cas, tucking his head underneath Cas’s chin and snaking an arm around his waist. The warmth of Cas’s body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, should comfort Dean.

But it doesn’t.

It’s an interminable wait until morning.

xxxxxxxxxx

After the debacle at the church, Michael summons the angels to a meeting in the assembly hall. His newly created angels line the walls, standing guard in the chamber. Two of the angels, Indra and Kushiel, glance at them nervously. It raises his suspicions. Why be uneasy if you’ve done nothing wrong?

He directs Father’s original angels toward the chairs lining the front row and remains standing so he looms above them. It’ll reinforce the message he wants to convey: he’s the ultimate authority in Heaven.

He glares at the angels before him. At least one of them had the gall to reveal his plans to Castiel and his associates.

“Someone here has betrayed me,” Michael pronounces. “Castiel and his friends attacked me today in a church. They surrounded me with holy fire and attempted to use witchcraft to exorcize me from my vessel.” Michael snorts. “It didn’t work, obviously. The Sword is mine, and no one can separate me from my property.

“I intend to unmask the identity of this filthy traitor. I will inspect you, one by one.” Michael slinks toward the first angel in the row, Zadkiel. He should be able to detect the offender’s guilt through their aura. Zadkiel smells of nothing but loyalty, as does Hephzibah next to him. He ascertains hints of misgiving and fear in the others as he passes by them, but nothing distinctly incriminating.

Until he reaches the last three angels.

Duma’s aura is suspicious. He gets a whiff of deception, but it’s not as pronounced as he’d expect it to be. It puts him in mind of disagreement rather than outright treachery. Next to her, Naomi is a blank. That’s disconcerting, but he understands. It’s the air one must cultivate in order to be an expert re-educator. If an angel undergoing re-education could read the instructor’s emotions, then they could manipulate that teacher, make him or her think re-education had succeeded when it hadn’t. Nevertheless, Michael is an expert at reading angels, and even a re-educator’s stoniness couldn’t deceive him. If she’d leaked information to Castiel, she wouldn’t be able to hide it from him.

The last angel is Indra. He reeks of alcohol.

And guilt.

Indra glances up at him, eyes glazed, but casts them downward a minute later.

Clearly, he’s the traitor. Like Castiel, he’s become enamored of human vices. Whiskey. Vodka. Tequila. Food. Indra is craving steak right now. And brownies.

He’s even fallen prey to sins of the flesh. And reveled in them.

“You,” Michael pronounces as he raises his archangel blade and presses it against Indra’s throat.

Indra flinches at the contact. “Me?” he echoes dumbly.

“You. You’re the one who colluded with Castiel.”

“I didn’t—” Indra begins to splutter.

“Don’t lie to me!” Michael roars. With one swipe of his blade, he slices off Indra’s head. Blinding blue light engulfs Indra's body as it falls to the floor. His head rolls to a stop in front of Zadkiel.

“Michael!” Naomi exclaims. “We need him! His grace—”

“Is being replaced as we speak. Or did you forget that I have been forging a new stable of angels?” He gestures toward the angels surrounding the room.

“But . . . as I have said before, your angels are different. They’re not like us. Their grace may even be different—”

“Not true. We don’t need him.  _I_ don’t need him. Or any of you, come to think of it. Be grateful I allow you to share in my enterprise.” In fact, Michael could achieve his goals just fine with his freshly built angels. Life could get dull, though. Thank goodness for unquestionably loyal angels like Zadkiel and Hephzibah. They can converse intelligently without threatening his plans.

Naomi opens her mouth as if to object, but a second later, her eyes dull, and she states, “Yes, Michael. Please forgive my insolence.”

“You’re forgiven.” Never let anyone ever say he isn’t magnanimous.

As he strolls back to the front of the assembly hall, Michael smiles, triumphant. “Let this be a warning to you all. If you betray me, I will discover you. And you will be punished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Michael mentally tortures Cas by forcing him to recall his most shameful memories. Michael uses what results to hypnotize Cas into wanting to kill himself.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: sexual content, mental torture. See the end of the chapter for more details.

Outside the church, Charlie and Rowena part ways with the group, vowing to contact them if they find anything helpful while they continue their road trip. On the way back to the bunker, Jack rides with Castiel while Sam, Mary, and Bobby take the Impala.

An uneasy silence permeates inside the car as Castiel drives. They’d been so close to saving Dean. They’d had their chance, and who knows if they’ll ever get another one. He feels like he’s going to fall to pieces, but he needs to keep up a strong front for Jack.

“Can I play some music?” Jack asks.

“Sure,” Castiel replies, glancing at Jack.

Jack picks up a tape resting on top of the small stack between the front seats and inserts it into the deck.

As the first song begins to play, Castiel instantly recognizes the tape. It’s “Dean’s Top 13 Zepp Traxx.”

Castiel huddles into himself, and despite his resolve, his vision blurs.

“It’s okay to cry, Castiel,” Jack assures him.

Castiel sniffs. “Crying doesn’t solve anything.”

“It is an expression of emotion, isn’t it?” Jack says, and Castiel nods. “Then it has value. It shows you care.”

Through gritted teeth, Castiel replies,  “Caring . . . makes you hurt.”

“But that’s what makes it beautiful,” Jack says. Castiel raises an eyebrow at Jack, who continues. “It’s that willingness to be vulnerable. Heart. It makes life worth living.”

Castiel smiles ruefully. “Dean would say that’s cheesy.”

“So?”

 _But Dean would also agree with you_ , Castiel thinks. _Even as he tries to mask it with sarcasm._

“We’ll win, Castiel,” Jack assures him. “The good guys always win.”

_If only that were true._

xxxxxxxxxx

When the group arrives at the bunker, Castiel trudges inside, heartsickness surging up all over again. Dean is suffering, trapped inside his own body, unable to stop Michael from using it as he wishes. He’d had to watch powerlessly as his hands hurt the ones he loved the most, as he was so close to freedom only to have the opportunity snatched away from him. Castiel wants to curl into a ball.

“Okay,” Sam says once everyone is inside. He runs a hand through his hair and dons a look of determination. “So, we go back to square one. Read through the lore in the library, see if we find something new, if we missed something.”

“More research? Goody,” Bobby remarks.

“There are a few books I want to take a closer look at,” Mary says with a small smile. “I didn't quite get through them before; maybe there'll be something we can use.”

Jack just heads to the library without comment, and Bobby follows him. Sam and Mary turn to Castiel expectantly.

“I can’t do this right now,” Castiel breathes. He’s ashamed of himself. After all, Sam is Dean’s brother, but he’s calm and collected, focused on the goal, while Castiel just feels like tearing his hair out in frustration.

“Cas—” Sam begins.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel interrupts. He hurries to his room and shuts the door, then flops onto the bed and covers his face with his hands.

 _Dean, I’m so sorry. We failed you. I failed you_. He sobs into his hands. _I would give anything to have you back here. Even if it meant destroying myself. You deserve to be here more than I do. You’ve done so much to help the world, and all I’ve done is screw it up. Yet you’ve been kind to me. Made me feel like I was worth something even though I know I’m not. If I was worth a damn, I would’ve separated Michael from you by now. Stopped whatever Michael’s up to._

_But you’re being used by Michael, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I love you, but what good is that love if I can’t even save you?_

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry._

_Why am I talking to you? It’s not like you can hear me._

xxxxxxxxxxx

Dean stretches in bed. Next to him, Cas props himself up on an elbow and watches Dean lazily. Dean loves when Cas looks at him like that, the languor in those blue eyes mixed with fondness.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the room in a giant swath of yellow. Thunder booms, rattling the window.

Dean groans. “Guess we’re not going out today.” As if on cue, rain starts pounding the window. Dean glances out the window through the crack between the curtains; sure enough, a merciless deluge has begun.

Cas raises a suggestive eyebrow. “There’s plenty we can do inside.”

Dean grins. “Oh, I have some filthy ideas.” He pushes up into Cas’s space, cradling his chin with both hands and brushing their lips together.

“You call that filthy?” Cas throws out in that adorable gravelly voice of his. “It’s downright chaste.”

“Show me, Cas. Give me all your filthy,” Dean murmurs.

Dean’s hands fall to Cas’s shoulders, and Cas yanks Dean closer with a tug on his shirt. He clamps one hand on Dean’s shoulder and wraps the other around Dean’s neck as he plants his lips on Dean’s.

Their mouths melt together, and Dean tastes Cas’s tongue as it tangles with his own. Dean can’t get enough of Cas’s unique taste, and he opens his mouth wider for more, taking Cas's tongue as deep as he can.

Cas’s hand migrates from Dean’s neck to his other shoulder. Cas pulls away, and Dean misses his lips already.  Cas guides Dean down until he’s lying flat on his back, and their eyes remain locked. Cas prods a knee between Dean’s legs, nudging them open until he’s pressing his knee against Dean’s dick. Dean moans and grinds against Cas, loving the friction created by the layers of clothes but aching to be closer.

Cas slips a hand beneath Dean’s shirt and caresses the expanse of bare skin, winding Dean up before tearing the shirt off and throwing it to the floor. He returns one hand to Dean’s stomach, brushing his fingertips over his skin, letting them wander up over his chest. His other hand busies itself with drawing teasingly on the waistband of Dean’s boxers. Dean stops grinding against Cas long enough to raise his legs, and Cas pulls his underwear off slowly, eliciting a groan from Dean. Those find their way to the floor, too.

Cas smiles at Dean and sits up to rip off his own T-shirt and underwear. He tosses them somewhere on the floor while Dean’s eyes remain glued to Cas’s body, raking over it. He never tires of admiring Cas’s physique: his taut abs and muscular thighs. It’s a shame he hides it under such loose clothing all the time. Then again, it makes moments like this even more special; Cas’s body is for him and him alone.

Cas leans down and strokes Dean’s hair, pecking a gentle kiss on each corner of Dean’s mouth. Dean can't help but smile at Cas’s playfulness, but he's pretty distracted by the fact that they’re both naked now—and getting hard.

Dean reaches up to wrap a hand around Cas’s cock and tugs it down toward his own until he can reach and encircle it with the same hand.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, blood rushing to his cock as he rubs them together. He lifts his head, seeking Cas’s lips again, and Cas meets him openly.

Kissing Cas, their cocks pressed together in his hand . . . it makes Dean feel bright; there’s no other word for it. Like all of Cas’s light and grace are pouring into him, electrifying him. Dean leans into it like a plant tilting toward the sunlight.

It’s so goddamn good. Dean lets out a soft moan and finds himself thinking about how much better it would feel if Cas were inside him, if their bodies were meshed in the most intimate way possible.

“Cas,” Dean whispers. “Fuck me.”

Cas pulls away from Dean and looks down at him, scrutinizing. “Are you sure?”

Dean understands why Cas asks the question. Until now, Dean has been reluctant to have sex. The idea made him feel too vulnerable, like he’d be exposing his entire being to Cas. Once they’d taken that step, they could never take it back.

But now, Dean doesn’t care. He wants— _needs_ —to share the entirety of himself with Cas. And have Cas reciprocate.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, meeting Cas’s eyes. He’s damn sure.

Cas smiles. “If you’re sure.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Good.”

Dean rolls over onto his stomach and shoves his ass into the air, presenting it to Cas. His skin heats up as Cas slowly smooths a hand down the entire length of his body, starting at the neck and continuing until he reaches the arch of Dean’s foot. It kind of tickles, and Dean suppresses a giggle.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Cas murmurs into his ear. “Your skin flushed.” He slaps Dean’s ass, and Dean’s dick throbs with fresh arousal. “Your flesh supple.”

Dean’s breath catches, and he doesn’t know how to respond. Precum leaks onto the sheet beneath him. He feels Cas reach over him then hears him grab the bottle of lube from the nightstand and pop off the cap.

A moment later, Cas strokes Dean’s ass with a slick hand, first one side, then the other.

“I’m going to insert my finger into your anus,” Cas warns.

Dean snorts. “Way to take the sexy out of it, Cas.”

Rather than replying, Cas slips a finger inside Dean. Dean shivers.

“Damn, that’s cold,” Dean grumbles.

Cas yanks out his finger. “Should we rethink this enterprise?”

Despite Cas’s straightforward tone, Dean would swear that Cas is teasing him. “Come back,” Dean whines.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please, goddammit!”

Cas tsks. “So impolite.” Dean’s about to snap that Cas should get on with it when, to his relief, the finger returns.

Cas prepares him reverently, taking an excruciatingly long time to move on to two fingers then three. When Cas finally hits his prostate, Dean groans.

“You like that?” Cas murmurs. Dean can hear the smirk in Cas’s voice.

“Yeah,” Dean exhales.

Cas works that spot mercilessly, so insistently that Dean’s afraid he’s gonna come too soon. “Cas,” Dean panics. “Not so fast. Gonna come.”

“Not yet,” Cas rasps, his fingers stilling.

Dean’s ready for Cas’s dick, but instead, Cas pushes in another finger. Dean presses his forehead into the pillow and growls with frustration.

“We can’t be too careful,” Cas admonishes as he explores Dean’s insides with four fingers.

After making Dean wait, Cas removes his fingers and places his hands on Dean's waist. He coaxes Dean up off the mattress, onto his his hands and knees. Dean closes his eyes, heart hammering with anticipation, and finally he feels the tip of Cas's dick pressing against him. “Ready?” Cas asks.

“So damn ready,” Dean declares.

“Okay,” Cas breathes. Dean detects a faint tremble in Cas’s voice.

Dean reaches behind himself and clasps Cas’s hand. “C’mon. This is gonna be awesome,” he says, smiling. Cas squeezes his hand as he presses a kiss to his shoulder.

Inch by inch, Cas eases in. It takes a second for Dean to adjust to each successive penetration, but even so, Dean hungers for more. When Cas finally bottoms out, Dean’s so full he feels like he’s going to burst. But it’s  _perfect_.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks.

“Yeah. You gonna move or what?”

Cas pulls all the way out and pushes back in again. And again. And again. He sets a steady, deliberate pace. He stretches his body atop Dean’s, almost every inch of their skin touching. When Cas moves, the friction makes Dean’s skin tingle deliciously.

Then, without warning, Cas triples his speed.

He pounds into Dean as if he can no longer control himself. With each thrust, Dean’s dick grazes the mattress. It engorges until it’s ballooned to an almost obscene size. He’s sure he’s going to come any second now. As it is, he doesn’t understand how he’s lasting so long.

“You messing with my stamina?” Dean asks through clenched teeth.

“No,” Cas grunts. Dean’s not sure whether to believe him.

As Cas continues to slam into him, Dean revels in the contact between their bodies, how smoothly their skin melds together. He feels safe and secure with Cas’s body above his, like it shelters him from the messiness of the world.

Cas reaches down and grasps Dean’s dick roughly, his fingertips sliding through the precum leaking from its head. Without slowing the pace of his thrusts, he snatches at Dean’s hair with his other hand and yanks Dean’s head back until his left eye meets both of Cas’s.

“Wanna see you when you come,” Cas scrapes out.

And that does it.

“Fuck,” Dean gasps as his cock thrashes in Cas’s grip. Cum shoots onto the sheets, and flecks of it splash onto his belly.

Cas holds eye contact with Dean as he slams into him with his most forceful thrust yet. Dean moans as Cas spills into him, his cum painting Dean’s insides.

“Hot damn,” Dean chuckles as he sinks against the bed.

Cas’s pelvis prods into him with a few minute tremors before his body finally sags against Dean’s back. He nips at Dean’s shoulder and the base of his neck before slipping out of him and flopping onto the bed at Dean's side. It feels empty with Cas no longer inside him, but his sore body begins to relax at the removal of the intrusion.

Dean collapses against Cas, his wrist brushing against his stomach and smearing the cum that had spattered there. Cas’s cum squishes inside, and some of it sticks to the insides of his thighs as it leaks out. Dean’s dick momentarily twitches with feeble arousal.

Dean rests his head on the center of Cas’s chest and gazes down at him. A pleasant lethargy settles into his bones as he closes his eyes.

Cas’s voice suddenly roars into his head, along with a piercing headache.

_Dean, I’m so sorry. We failed you. I failed you._

Dean’s eyes fly open, and he peers down at Cas.

Cas’s eyes slide to meet his. “What is it, Dean? Are you okay?”

A blast of thunder makes Dean’s head throb even more. He closes his eyes again, and the darkness does ease the pain a smidge. But only for a split second. Words come pouring through, and now in addition to the searing headache, he feels a wave of nausea.

_I would give anything to have you back here. Even if it meant destroying myself. You deserve to be here more than I do. You’ve done so much to help the world, and all I’ve done is screw it up. Yet you’ve been kind to me. Made me feel like I was worth something even though I know I’m not. If I was worth a damn, I would’ve separated Michael from you by now. Stopped whatever Michael is up to._

_But you’re being used by Michael, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I love you, but what good is that love if I can’t even save you?_

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry._

_Why am I talking to you? It’s not like you can hear me._

What is the voice even talking about? Being used by Michael? He’d expelled Michael from his body long ago, way back when he’d revoked his permission after killing Lucifer. Then Michael had taken on his previous vessel once again before they’d finally beaten him. That’s why they’re here on vacation, to celebrate defeating him.

“Are you okay?” Cas repeats, his voice full of concern.

Dean is startled back to the present, and he blinks a few times. Cas places a comforting hand on Dean’s hip and massages his shoulder with the other one. Dean stares down at him.

What if this isn't real?

It sounds crazy, but Dean can test it. If he prays to Cas, which Cas will hear him? The one next to him or the other one?

_Cas? I can hear you._

_Great. Now I’m hallucinating a response._

_No, Cas, it’s me. It’s not a hallucination._ Dean cracks one eye open and glances at the Cas underneath him. He doesn’t seem aware of Dean praying to him. So the real Cas—the one answering him—isn’t here.

The Cas whose warm hands soothe him—he’s not real. None of this is real. _This Cas_ —he isn’t real.

He’s afraid to open his eyes. What will he see? A demon, eyes black and taunting? A wisp that’s only the shell of the actual Cas? Or, most disturbing of all, the same realistic simulation he’s been interacting with all these weeks—the one he’s just _made love to_?

Fuck.

Without opening his eyes, he grabs the fake Cas’s wrists and tries to pry his hands off, but their grip is iron-tight.

God. He can’t breathe.

The Cas here, with him—he’d professed his love to Dean. He’s not real, which means it had all been a lie.

But wait a minute.

The real Cas, wherever he is—he’d said, _I love you, but what good is that love if I can’t even save you?_

A seed of hope sprouts in his heart. Even if he hasn’t been spending the past few weeks with the real Cas, maybe Cas still loves him. _You love me?_ Dean asks the real Cas.

 _Of course I do._ Said just like that, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

The sprout blossoms into something larger. He’s told Cas so many times now that he loves him, but he needs the real Cas to know. Even if everything they’ve been through here has been a lie, he needs to know that their love isn’t, and that it’s mutual. _I love you, too, Cas._

 _I know you do._ Cas sounds wistful. _You call me your brother. But the way I love you, Dean . . . it’s not as a brother. It’s more than that._

More than that? Dean’s heart flips in his chest. _I love you like that, too._

 _Now I_ know  _this is a hallucination. Dean would never say that._

Dean’s heart throbs. Cas doesn’t think Dean could love him like that? It hurts, realizing that Cas thinks his love for Dean is unrequited. True, he’s often referred to Cas as his brother, but that’d been his cowardice. His fear that Cas would be disgusted by the nature of Dean’s love for him. He’d rather lie to Cas and keep him than drive him away by expressing the depth of his feelings.

But if Cas feels the same way he does . . . . That makes things different. How can he make sure Cas understands how he really feels?

 _Cas. Wherever I am right now, you know what happened? We just had sex, okay?_ With the confession, goosebumps pimple his skin. He’d shared such an intimate moment with—what? He doesn’t even know.

At least he can’t feel the fake Cas’s hands anymore. Thank fuck.

A long stretch of silence follows, and Dean begins to regret his statement. Perhaps Cas is repulsed at the thought of sex with Dean. Maybe he’d misinterpreted Cas’s declaration.

When Cas finally responds, the words come out in a tentative whisper. _We did?_ _Why?_

 _Why?_ Dean repeats the word in disbelief.  _Because I fucking love you. And you love me, too. Here you do, anyway._

 _I have dreamed of having intercourse with you_ , Cas admits, sounding terrified.

 _I’d like that_ , Dean drawls. He wishes he could erase the past hour. Start over, and make love with the real Cas.

So where is Dean? Was he captured by a djinn? Yeah, that must be it, and he needs Cas to find him. But why can he hear Cas?

He’ll worry about that later. Right now, he needs to know where he is and how he can get back to his family. _If this isn’t real, then where the hell am I?_

_I don’t know. Wherever Michael has taken you._

_Huh?_ Michael? That doesn’t make sense.

_You don’t know, Dean? From what you’ve told me . . . Michael has cloaked you in an illusion. As you would put it, you’re riding shotgun, and Michael’s at the wheel._

Dean grins to himself. He _would_ explain the situation like that. Cas knows him so well.

But he has nothing to smile about. Now that the deception has been dispelled, the truth comes crashing back into his consciousness.

Dean had said yes to Michael so he could kill Lucifer. Afterward, when he’d attempted to revoke permission, Michael had refused to let go.

So where  _is_ he? He’s too scared to open his eyes.

 _We’ve been trying to separate you and Michael,_ Cas says urgently. _Do you know where you are? In the real world? Maybe we can try again—_

A stern voice interrupts Cas.  _Oh, no, this won’t do at all._

And now Dean can’t hear Cas anymore.

Dean’s eyes fly open, and his surroundings are a big blank. No Cas, no thunderstorm, no bed, no hotel room . . .

Instead, gruesome images flash before him. Cas pointing his angel blade at his belly as Dean’s form towers over him, unblinking eyes intensely focusing on Cas, glorying in the sight.

Dean’s heart lurches. He’s watching Michael, he knows, not himself, but the tableau still makes him ache. Cas loves him. He said so. Dean feels what Cas felt during that moment, and Michael’s appearance, alien yet familiar . . . the excruciation passes from Cas’s grace to Dean’s soul.

Past moments rapidly rotate through.

Cas wars with Raphael. Standing against an archangel, alone. Every time Dean has a request, he shows up and helps but never mentions anything about his war with Raphael. Cas is up against Raphael, a freakin’ archangel, _alone_ . . .

And Dean can’t remember asking him about it.

Dean’s concerns seem petty now. How much regard had he given Cas’s situation? None. Dean had thought only of himself and Sam. _I was such a damn asshole._

Cas, as his unease about his deal with Crowley grows, as Raphael’s threats grow more dire, doesn’t want to burden Dean with his problems.

He faces the danger alone, only to have Dean savagely confront him once he discovers what Cas has been hiding.

_Oh, God. How could I treat Cas like that?_

Cas digests the souls from Purgatory and dubs himself God. He feels Cas’s pride, how he loves finally being strong. Being alone doesn’t matter anymore, not when he is no longer powerless.

Dean begs him to expel the souls from Purgatory. _We were family once,_ Dean pleads.

_We were family? The gall to say that, with the way I’d treated him. No wonder Cas responded like he did._

_You’re not my family, Dean. I have no family_. Those are Cas’s words.

Waves of desperation and loneliness emanate from Cas.

Feeling like he has no other choice, Cas slaughters friends, enemies, and innocent bystanders.

Seeking penance for his mistakes, Cas is instead fooled into precipitating the expulsion of all angels from Heaven.

Cas’s guilt and despair wash over Dean.

Cas is human, clueless and vulnerable, and Dean kicks him out of the bunker, the only place he could maybe find a home. Gadreel won’t heal Sammy otherwise, and Dean needs his brother to recover.

But Dean loves Cas, too. And that—that’s how Dean treats someone he loves?

More glimpses of the path Cas has taken since meeting Dean flicker before him. Too many to count, Cas’s estimation of himself decreasing to less than nothing all the while.

Michael booms, _Do you see what you’ve done to him, Sword? How you’ve ruined Castiel? What good is your love when it wrecks him so?_

Then back in the church, where Cas had aimed the sword at himself. _I’m rotten,_ he sobs to himself.

Dean thinks _, No, Cas, please, you’re not—_

_Naomi forces Cas to kill millions of Deans until he can do it without showing any emotion. His eyes look vacant, as if he’s no longer there._

Yet Cas loves Dean.

Why? How can Cas love him after all that?

It doesn’t matter what happens to him. He destroyed Cas, and he deserves all the punishment in the world.

Darkness surrounds him. He curls into a fetal position and whimpers.

xxxxxxxxxx

Michael is contemplating where he should perform miracles next when he hears voices. Faint at first, but eventually, they come into focus.

The Sword and Castiel are conversing with each other. Michael frowns. That doesn’t make sense. He must be imagining it. The Sword believes he’s at a beach resort with his family.

Michael checks into the Sword’s mind. To his horror, the Sword is praying to Castiel, and somehow, Castiel is talking back.

How is the Sword able to perceive Castiel’s thoughts?

Unless . . . Michael sneers as he recalls the reverence, the desperation in everything he’s overheard from Castiel.

Castiel has been praying to Sword.

Just when he’d thought Castiel couldn’t get more pathetic. _Abomination_ doesn’t even begin to cover how detestable he is.

It shouldn’t be possible, but with Michael’s grace flowing through the vessel, it seems the human has gained the ability to hear prayers.

He can’t have Castiel and the Sword talking to each other. It might give the Sword hope, which would make him struggle against Michael’s possession of the vessel. Michael doesn’t need the added irritation.

Besides, the voices are a distraction. Not to mention that Castiel might find a way to ascertain Michael’s plans through the connection.

He needs to cut them off now.

Michael interjects, _Oh, no, this won’t do at all._

He shows the Sword everything he’d gleaned from Castiel during the confrontation in the church.

As the Sword witnesses Castiel’s shameful moments, Michael admonishes, _Do you see what you’ve done to him, Sword? How you’ve ruined Castiel? What good is your love when it wrecks him so?_

A few more images, and the Sword falls apart, weeping in a corner of his mind.

Satisfied, Michael smirks. The Sword is incapacitated, which once again guarantees Michael complete control of the vessel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Dean and Cas have sex in Dean's dream world. Michael mentally tortures Dean by showing him some of Cas's memories and making him feel guilty for his past treatment of Cas.


	8. Chapter Seven

Castiel opens his eyes and realizes his arms are crossed over his chest in an X. After a moment of confusion, he sits bolt upright. He remembers now: he had been talking to Dean.

Someone knocks on the door. “Castiel!” Jack calls. “Can I come in?”

Does Castiel want Jack to come in? He’s not sure. He still needs time to process what had just taken place in his head. So, no, not yet—

“I'm coming in!” Jack announces. He steps inside the room and shuts the door behind him. “Are you all right?” he asks.

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, but Jack continues, “I'm sorry; that was a stupid question.” Jack squints at Castiel and then asks, “What happened to you?” He smacks his palm to his forehead. “Sorry, that was another dumb question. I know what happened. I was there. We fought Michael.”

Castiel swings his legs over the side of the bed. “No, something else did happen,” he says. “ I heard him, Jack. I heard Dean.”

Jack tilts his head to the side as he considers Castiel’s words. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. He was praying to me. We talked. But Michael severed the connection.” Castiel shudders at the memory of Michael’s menacing tone. _Oh, no, this won’t do at all._ Dark laughter as Dean’s voice was ripped from Castiel’s consciousness. What had Michael done to Dean, to tear him away so violently?

“How could he hear you?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel sighs. _Dean, Dean, can you hear me?_ An ominous silence answers Castiel’s thought. “But I don’t think he can hear me anymore.”

“Cas!” Sam shouts as footsteps approach. “There’s someone here to see—”

Before Sam can finish his sentence, however, Duma storms in. Castiel stands up to greet her, but before he can say anything, she grasps him by the lapels and shoves him against the wall.

“Hey!” Sam shouts from the doorway. “Let him go.”

Castiel catches sight of Duma’s anguished face and croaks, “It’s fine, Sam.” He eyes both Sam and Jack. “Let me talk to her alone.”

“Are you insane? She just attacked you!” Sam exclaims.

Duma releases Castiel and says, “I won’t hurt him. I promise. If I wanted to, I would have done it already.”

Jack studies Duma for a minute before heading for the doorway. “She’s sincere,” he says to Sam. “I can tell.”

“How?” Jack just stares at him, and Sam deflates. “Fine.” He follows Jack and pauses at the doorway. “Call us if you need anything, Cas.” Cas nods at Sam.

Once Sam and Jack are gone, Duma remarks, “Such protective friends you have.”

Castiel crosses his arms and steps back, leaning against the wall. “What are you doing here, Duma?”

“You failed in your mission. Michael still has his vessel.”

Castiel flinches. “I’m all too aware.”

“And because of your incompetence, Indra is dead!”

“What?” Castiel gasps.

Duma nods, eyes tearing up. “It was horrible. Michael sliced off Indra’s head just like that.” She snaps her fingers to emphasize her point. “Like Indra was worth nothing.”

“Why would he do that?” Castiel asks softly. Doesn’t Michael want the angels to stay on his side?

“He thought Indra was the one who betrayed him. But it was also a warning to us, of what would happen if we turned on him . . . If you had just done your job, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“We tried our best—” Castiel starts.

“Not good enough.” She straightens up and swipes at her eyes. “You had your chance. The world follows Michael now, wherever that leads.”

“Do you want that?”

“No, but what other choice do we have?”

“We can always fight.”

Duma snorts. “It’s futile.” She inclines her head. “But against better judgment, Naomi wishes to keep trying.”

“What?”

“She wants to meet with you next Thursday in Lebanon’s town park. Privately. She thinks she’ll know more about Michael’s plans then, and she wants to share them with you.”

“She does?” Naomi doesn’t seem like the type who’d take such a risk as meeting with Castiel directly. Could it be a trap? He doesn’t think so. If Duma and Naomi had been planning to spring a trap, they would’ve done so the first time he’d met with Duma.

“Yes. Though why she thinks it’ll do any good, I have no idea.” With that, Duma stalks out of the room.

xxxxxxxxxx

Michael needs to make another grand statement. Despite all of his magnanimous works, a not insignificant number of humans have started organizing a new movement: anti-Michaelism.

The miracles continue, but the anti-Michaelists only grow more passionate.

What do they think will happen when they oppose the closest thing to God they’ve ever seen?

Killing the man who’d dubbed Michael the Antichrist hadn’t been enough. Now, he needs to perpetrate a strike against the anti-Michaelists that’ll snuff them out.

Michael has commanded Naomi to present him with a report on the anti-Michaelists. Their core beliefs and their plans. In the vastness of the blindingly white assembly hall, Michael sits on a throne at the front, stretching his legs and resting his feet on an ottoman. His beautiful new angels line the perimeter, focused on him with unquestioning obedience.

Michael clasps his form’s hands together and rests them on his stomach. It is such a relief to have the Sword so quiet. Catatonic, comatose. He doesn’t have to think about the Sword’s blasphemous fantasies about spending time with that abomination of a family, complete with Nephilim and a fallen angel. Not to mention all that copulation with said angel. The very thought makes Michael sick.

Happily, he no longer has to put up with such disgusting images. Or worry about whether the Sword can somehow hear the real Castiel, because he’s completely unaware of anything. Nor does he need to fret about whether the illusion will fall away and the Sword will nag him again.

Naomi stands to attention before him. “Anti-Michaelists claim that they’re not against you per se,” she explains. “They do not believe that you are an angel, however, or that you represent God. They don’t know what you are. Theories include the idea that you’re a new species. Or an alien.

“There are some who want to capture and study you to find out your true intentions. Others wish to initiate a two-way dialogue. Of course, there are those who outright despise you and think you should be killed, and there are even some who claim to love you but refuse to worship you. Overall, they’re leery of you. They’re a diverse bunch. In fact, they are planning a conference, to discuss the issue amongst themselves and hammer out their core tenets and objectives.”

“There I shall take my stand. Anyone who shows up for this heretical gathering will be obliterated. Let us see who advocates for anti-Michaelism then.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

xxxxxxxxxx

Castiel perches on a park bench, waiting for Naomi, when she arrives quietly on foot.

“Castiel,” Naomi greets him, her tone neutral. She strides toward him and stops beside the bench, which she gestures toward as she asks, “May I sit?”

“Go ahead,” Castiel replies.

Naomi settles onto the bench, leaning back against the wood. “Do you remember the preacher Michael killed?” Castiel nods. The death had been a vivid visual statement, but Michael has stuck to miracles since then. “Michael is planning to strike again. And this time, it’s going to be much bigger.”

A feeling of dread uncoils in Castiel’s stomach. He’d figured that it would only be a matter of time before Michael murdered again. But what does Naomi mean by “much bigger”?

“It’ll be at an anti-Michaelism conference. Here in Kansas. Lawrence.” Anti-Michaelism has been flourishing over the past few weeks, and Castiel had been surprised that Michael had allowed the movement to grow. Now he knows why—Michael wants to make a statement by massacring as many anti-Michaelists as he can at one time.

“Thank you, Naomi,” Castiel says. He waits a minute before he asks, “What will Heaven do without Michael? A collapse would be catastrophic.”

“It would,” Naomi agrees. “Without Michael, though, we’ll still have his angels.”

“But I thought they would answer to no one but Michael.”

“That might not be true. There have been . . . signs. I’ve seen a few of them wave a limb when Michael isn’t present. And they may not be mindless. Yesterday, one of them asked me to give him a name. I gave several suggestions before he was satisfied. He chose Ezekiel.”

With the mention of Ezekiel, Castiel’s heart pangs. “He couldn’t have chosen a nobler name.”

After a pause, Castiel sighs. “I appreciate your help, Naomi. If only we knew what to do. It’s useless if we don’t know how to beat him.” Despite all the research he and the others have been engaged in, they haven’t found anything they can try to use to extract Michael’s grace from Dean.

“Oh, we all know how to beat him. Kill him.” Castiel gapes at her. “What? It’s true.” She pats his shoulder, and he shrinks away from her touch. “But I know you won’t do it.”

“You won’t, either,” Castiel points out.

“Even if I don’t agree with all of his policies, I do not have it in me to commit such . . . sacrilege. To think! Killing an archangel.” She meets his eyes. “But you’ve done it before.”

Castiel flinches at the reminder of Raphael’s slaughter, and his cheeks grow hot. He glances away and grits out, “We have to stop him. Before he turns this world into the nightmare he’s rendered his own.” _And to save Dean from imprisonment in his own body_ , Castiel doesn’t add.

“I know your true reasons, Castiel. You’ve been enamored of that human for so long. I tried to break the infatuation, but I couldn’t. It’s that strong.”

Castiel’s hands curl into fists. “What you did to me was evil, Naomi,” he snaps.

“I thought I was right at the time. I’m sorry.”

Castiel does a double take. “You’re sorry?”

“I am. For everything I did to you. It was wrong to act against something so . . . beautiful.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say.

“The bond between you and the Sw—Dean Winchester,” Naomi continues. “It transcends species, transcends . . . what I did. Re-education. There is beauty in that, is there not?”

Castiel’s guard goes up. “What trick is this?”

“It’s not a trick, Castiel, I swear. People . . . well, angels . . . we change. You changed. I changed. Is that so hard to believe?”

Castiel stands up without offering a response. “Thank you again, Naomi,” he pronounces.

“You’re welcome,” Naomi replies, her gaze following him as he strolls away.


	9. Chapter Eight

The group spends weeks combing through the lore compiled by the Men of Letters. While Castiel and Jack safeguard the bunker, Sam, Bobby, and Mary visit the other compounds erected by the Men of Letters and bring back all the literature stored in those places. They sift through the material for anything that can help them pull Michael’s grace out of Dean without harming him. But it all proves useless.

It seems like a goldmine when Sam finds the workbooks of the Man of Letters who’d invented the Hyperbolic Pulse Generator, but something must be missing. They build several models of the Hyperbolic Pulse Generator, and they test them on a few demons Jody caught causing havoc, but all of the exorcisms fail.

They discover a member’s theory about how to summon an archangel into a death trap, but they reject it out of hand because it would kill the vessel as well.

Then there’s a theory about how to extract an angel’s grace from a distance. It involves using a lock of hair from someone related to the true vessel and mixing it with holy oil, honey, silver, and soil from Jerusalem. After the product is set on fire, the formula calls for a scrap from an object beloved by the vessel. Sam cuts out a sliver of fabric from the Impala’s passenger seat and drops it on the blaze, but nothing happens.

All the dead ends lead to more discouragement. Why get their hopes up when nothing ever works? They exist in a state of inertia, searching by rote, but it feels fruitless. They scan the same books over and over and still find nothing new.

This state of affairs continues until one day, Sam exclaims, “I think I got something!” No one pays him any mind; if he’s actually found something useful, he’ll keep talking.

“No, guys, seriously, we could try this,” Sam continues, a note of hope in his voice.

Everyone slowly looks up from their books and turns to Sam, who holds a battered, slim volume in his hands.

“What’re you going on about?” Bobby grouses.

Sam explains, “According to this, you can extract the archangel’s grace by using a combination of other ingredients. They call to the grace, and once it’s added to the mixture, the archangel is killed. It’s not a proven method, of course, more a theory that a Man of Letters came up with but never got to test. But we could try it.” His eyes widen as he keeps scanning the page. “But those other ingredients—the price is high,” he cautions. “We’d have to decide whether the possibility of it working is worth the risk.”

“And the stuff we’ve tried before ain’t got a high price?” Bobby responds. “Anything’s worth a go. It’s better than the nothing we’ve been getting.”

Mary ignores Bobby and asks, “What’s the risk?”

“Like I said, you have certain ingredients. You put them in a vial, and it calls the archangel’s grace to it.”

“What’s the problem?” Bobby demands gruffly.

“So, you need only two other things. You start with the grace of a seraph.”

Suddenly, everyone’s eyes are on Castiel, who doesn’t know what to say. Unquestionably, the sacrifice is worth it. “I’ll gladly give it up,” Castiel declares.

Sam protests, “But it’ll make you human, and you won’t be able to get it back—”

“If it saves Dean, it’s worth it.”

“But there’s no guarantee it’ll work.”

“It’s the only option we have. That’s enough for me.”

“Okay,” Sam sighs. He still sounds nervous. “I don’t think any of us will be so sure about the other thing, though.”

“What is it?” Bobby asks.

Sam’s answer comes out in a rapid clip. “The grace of a Nephilim.”

Castiel panics. _No_. Dean is worth Castiel’s grace, but Jack shouldn’t be asked to make such a sacrifice, especially when they don’t even know if it’ll work.

“You can have it,” Jack states.

Castiel whips around to face him. “ _No_.”

“Why not? It’s okay for you to give up your grace but not me?”

 _Yes_. “You’ll be human.”

“So will you.”

“I’ve been human before. I know what it’s like. What I’d be getting into. You—you don’t.”

Jack glares at Castiel. “So what? I still know what being human means.”

“No, you don’t,” Castiel snaps.

Mary interrupts them. “If it kills Michael, how do we know it won’t also kill Castiel and Jack?”

“They’ll still have their bodies,” Sam points out. “But Michael’s grace will be extracted from Dean, and he won’t have a vessel.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” Bobby asks.

“We’re not doing this,” Castiel argues.

Mary’s gaze settles tenderly on Jack. “I’m with Castiel. We’re not taking away Jack’s grace.”

“You act like I’ll _die_ ,” Jack says, testy. “I’ll just be human. That’s it. Why is that so bad? You don’t want me to be like you all?” He scoffs. “You want to be able to use me when you need help fighting, is that it?”

“Of course not, sweetheart,” Mary replies mournfully. “How could you think that?”

“I will love you whether you’re a human or an angel,” Castiel says.

“We all will,” Sam affirms.

“We just don’t want you to get hurt. It’s a big sacrifice,” Mary explains.

“It’s  _my_ grace we’re talking about,” Jack says. “So it’s _my_ choice.”

“The boy has a point,” Bobby grunts.

“Okay, then,” Sam says, looking around at everyone. “It’s decided. We’ll give this a try at the anti-Michaelism conference.”

After Jack had last spoken, the words had flown around Castiel meaninglessly, racing, pushing him into a trap. Jack will lose his grace, and there’s nothing Castiel can do about it. He can scarcely breathe.

“We’re not doing this,” Castiel asserts.

Sam’s eyes fill with sympathy. “Cas—”

Castiel jumps to his feet and storms off to his room. He wants Dean back more than anything, but harming Jack—it’s too much.

“Castiel!” Jack shouts, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.

Castiel slams the door behind himself and leans against it, closing his eyes against the tears beginning to fall.

“Castiel,” Jack says more softly. His voice is so close Castiel knows he’s just on the other side of the door. “I know you don’t want me to do this. That you care about me and don’t want to . . . hurt me. But it won’t hurt me; I promise. Michael controlling Dean . . . that hurts more. I just want Dean back. I love him. Please? Please be okay with this?”

Castiel nods as the tears stream down his cheeks. It really is Jack’s choice; he has autonomy over himself. When he realizes Jack can’t see him, he coughs, “Yes, Jack. It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

“Thank you, Castiel. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jack. So much.”

xxxxxxxxxx

On the day the anti-Michaelism conference is scheduled to begin, Mary and Bobby head to Lawrence early so they can scout out the venue before the evening's opening event: the keynote presentation from one of the nation’s leading anti-Michaelists. Castiel, Sam, and Jack stay at the bunker to stockpile all the supplies that could even remotely be helpful.

And remove the grace of Castiel and Jack.

After they’ve gathered almost everything else they might need, Sam stands before Castiel and Jack in the bunker library, gripping a vial in his left hand. With his other hand, Sam holds up an angel blade. The enormity of what they are about to do looms over them.

“Ready?” Sam asks. Castiel and Jack nod in unison. Sam releases a shaky breath. “Okay. Cas, you’re first.” He takes a deep breath and holds the blade up to Castiel’s throat. He nicks the side of Castiel’s neck, and grace flows into the vial. Castiel gasps at how weak he suddenly feels.

“You all right?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” Castiel rasps. “It just takes a minute to get used to.”

Sam turns to Jack. “Jack? You ready?” Jack nods, but he reaches for Castiel’s hand, gripping it firmly in his own. His palms are sweaty, and Castiel feels their fine tremor. He opens his mouth to tell Sam to stop but then abruptly shuts it again. Jack is right. It’s his choice, and if Jack doesn’t want Sam to stop, Castiel won’t ask for it.

Jack’s hand tightens in Castiel’s as Sam makes an incision. Castiel squeezes Jack’s hand in reassurance. White light pours out of Jack’s neck and into the vial. Jack’s hand slips out of Castiel’s grasp, and he slumps against Castiel’s shoulder as the grace flows out of him.

Castiel wraps an arm around Jack’s shoulders and asks gently, “Are you okay?”

Jack straightens up and smiles tentatively. “Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sam tightly twists the cap on the vial and gazes at Castiel and Jack with tears in his eyes. He clears his throat. “Thank you. I know how much you guys are giving up, and there’s no way I can ever repay you. Words can’t express how grateful I am . . . ”

Castiel smiles at Sam. “There’s no need to say anything.”

“Dean would’ve done the same for us,” Jack puts in.

Sam coughs. “Yeah. Of course.” He swipes at his eyes. “Ready to go?” Castiel and Jack nod, and Sam leads them toward the garage, where the three of them pile into the Impala.

When they arrive, they slip into the auditorium, which is already so full that the only seats left are in the back. Castiel spots Mary and Bobby near the front, seated in out-of-the-way corners.

Chatter surrounds them, most of it focused on impassioned arguments about Michael’s true intentions and objectives. More people file in, and eventually only standing room remains. Everyone is so crammed together that there’s scarcely room to breathe. This is the worst scenario imaginable. When Michael shows up, how will they make sure these people get out of here unharmed?

“Good evening, everyone,” a woman announces into the microphone attached to the podium. The conversations in the room gradually cease. “I am honored to introduce tonight’s keynote speaker, a sociology professor from Yale University. He is one of the leading scholars in groupthink and at the forefront of the anti-Michaelism debate. Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Dr. Victor Chase!”

Thunderous applause follows the pronouncement as a middle-aged man steps up to the podium. “Thank you, Dr. Klein,” Dr. Chase begins. “What does anti-Michaelism stand for? It is a question that I and some of the leading advocates of anti-Michaelism have been debating for weeks. Tonight, I want to share what we’ve concluded all anti-Michaelists have in common.

“We knew that we must first establish the basic beliefs of anti-Michaelism. I know many of you disagree, but we don’t think the movement should enshrine a stance against the so-called archangel Michael into our platform. Anti-Michaelism isn’t about vilifying Michael. Really, we just aren’t sure whether we should trust him. If he’s such a beneficent being, why did he kill the preacher who opposed him? Why—”

Michael materializes behind the speaker and places a hand on his forehead. “It is because I am a jealous god,” he says soothingly just before burning the man’s eyes out. The man shrieks in agony, writhing in pain before Michael finally allows him to die. As the man’s body topples to the ground, Michael turns to the audience with a grin.

Hysterical screams erupt all around as everyone flees toward the nearest exits. There’s no escaping Michael, though; he grabs random individuals by their wrists, their necks, and their waists, and their bodies fall lifelessly to the ground. Sam pulls out an angel blade from underneath his coat, and Castiel grips the hilt of his own. Too many people block their path for them to be able to navigate their way toward Michael.

Mary dashes over from a seat in the front row, angel blade raised. Michael gestures toward her, but she ducks just in time, and the blast throws two fleeing audience members across the room. Bobby approaches Michael from behind, but just as the tip of his angel blade is about to graze Michael’s cheek, Michael spins around and waves a hand at him. Bobby goes flying toward the wall.

Sam maneuvers through the thinning crowd. Jack starts to follow, but Castiel stops him with a hand to the shoulder.

“Help me get the rest of the audience out of here,” Castiel says. The remaining people scramble aimlessly, unable to locate the exits in their panic.

Castiel wants to keep Jack away from Michael as long as possible; his new state of gracelessness renders him especially vulnerable.

Castiel directs Jack toward the nearest exit before heading toward the one on the other side. With Jack and Castiel conducting traffic, the disoriented audience members finally find their way out of the auditorium.

Now that the room is empty, Castiel turns to the front. Michael wields two swords, expertly parrying Mary, Bobby, and Sam as they attempt to reach any sliver of skin they can break through with the edge of a blade.

Jack draws his blade, holds it aloft, and rushes toward Michael.

“Jack—” Castiel calls, wishing to caution him against recklessness. But before Castiel can say anything else, Jack jumps into the fray. Michael jabs his elbow into Jack’s nose, and he falls to the ground.

Castiel runs toward Michael, blade at the ready. Seeing Michael in the flesh, in Dean’s body, still disconcerts him so much that he’s momentarily paralyzed. But he has to put that out of his mind and focus on the mission, or he’ll fail—

Michael sends Castiel’s angel blade flying down the center aisle. Wielding both swords, Michael spins on his heel and knocks Bobby’s weapon to the ground. As Bobby and Castiel lunge to recover their weapons, Mary strikes one of Michael’s swords from his hand.

Jack clutches his sword more tightly and springs to his feet as the others swarm around Michael. Michael smirks at their hesitation, but Jack takes a swing. He lunges with too much force and misses widely. Michael jumps out of the way, and Sam catches Jack before he can hit the ground.

Michael turns to Mary and Bobby, and he uses both hands to knock their weapons toward the back of the auditorium. Mary and Bobby rush to retrieve them. Castiel uses the opening to dart at Michael, poised with his angel blade.

“You won’t hurt me,” Michael scoffs. “I can see it in your eyes.”

 _No, I won’t hurt_ Dean _. I will hurt_ you.

Castiel aims a blow at Michael’s sword. He misses, and Michael swings with his other hand, puncturing a hole in the wrist of his trench coat. Castiel ignores it and fights on. But Michael is too fast, and Castiel braces himself for the next strike.

Jack intercepts the strike with his sword. Michael turns on him and parries with enough energy to make Jack falter. One misstep, and Jack tumbles to the ground. Sam rushes in, and with his other blade, Michael catches Sam’s hit and sends him flying backward.

With a fresh burst of determination, Castiel soars back into action. Michael’s swings are quicker than ever, coming one after another from both of his blades. But Castiel’s adrenaline is racing, and he moves just as swiftly, countering each attack. Michael’s eyes widen in surprise as Castiel matches him move for move, and he directs all of his attention at Castiel—away from Jack, who sits up on the floor, and away from Sam, who creeps up behind Michael.

Castiel slashes at Michael, driving him back a step. Jack kicks at Michael’s ankle, and Michael falters, listing to the side. That misstep is enough; Sam’s blade manages to nick his neck.

It’s just a scratch, but it’s enough. The blue light of grace trickles out of the opening.

xxxxxxxxxx

The angel blade pricks Michael’s neck, and a taunting remark dies on his lips.

It’s a puncture that would normally fade away as soon as the skin breaks, but it feels as if a force is digging into the opening.

Something is devouring his grace, and blue light gushes out of his neck thickly. It’s pulling him out of the Sword, depleting him, sucking him into the glowing vial in the younger Winchester’s hand.

He extends his wings to flee before he’s completely drained, but they refuse to carry him away.

He clutches at the wound, which has now enlarged into a gash, attempting to hold in his grace, but it’s futile. Grace seeps out between his fingers.

His thoughts come in rapid-fire succession. _No, this can’t be! No one should be able to hurt me, not like this. I have my Sword._

_Only one person could’ve told the Winchesters where I planned to be. And that’s—_

_Naomi._

_Naomi will suffer for this. They will all suffer_ —

Fear strikes Michael as his world suddenly flashes to absolute darkness. _What does this mean? Where is he—?_

xxxxxxxxxx

As his form clatters to the ground, Michael’s eyes widen.

Castiel, Jack, Sam, Mary, and Bobby surround him in a circle as his body grows slack.

The righteousness, cruelty, and imperium that had suffused Dean’s body when Michael had been in control vanish.

All that’s left is Dean, his body still, his eyes wide as if he’s nothing but a corpse.

 _No_. Dean can’t be dead.

Bobby kneels down and puts his ear to Dean’s chest. “His heart is beating.” Everyone else breathes a sigh of relief.

“Guys—” Sam calls. The rest of the group spins to face him. In the vial gripped in Sam’s palm, Michael’s grace pulses as Castiel’s and Jack’s graces envelop it. The vial explodes, releasing the grace mixture as one giant cloud that embodies all colors at once. It grows brighter until it sears Castiel’s eyes, blinding him before rendering the world into a photographic negative. When Castiel’s vision returns to normal, the cloud has vaporized.

All the grace has been obliterated. Jack’s. Castiel’s. And Michael’s.

Michael is dead. _Gone_.

Even so, Castiel can scarcely comprehend it.

When his vision returns, he notices the shards of glass embedded in Sam’s palm. Blood trickles out of the cuts.

Mary rips a strip of cloth from the bottom of her jacket and approaches Sam. “Let me.” Sam holds out his hand, and she wraps it, her eyes on Dean’s unmoving body all the while.

“Dean,” Castiel breathes as he sinks to his knees beside Dean’s catatonic figure. In his desperation, everything but Dean fades into the background. “Please wake up.”

Castiel recalls the telepathic exchange with Dean, the last contact he’d had with him. Dean had claimed to love him, and this time, not as a brother. He can’t lose Dean, not now that he knows his love for Dean is requited.

“Come back to us. Come back to me. I love you. I need you to come back to me. Please, Dean. Come back to me.”

xxxxxxxxxx

When Michael leaves him, Dean’s body immediately feels lighter. Buoyant, even. But everything Michael had shown him, all the suffering he’d put Cas through, keeps playing itself over and over in his mind, deeply etched.

Indistinct voices surround him, but he can’t make out the words. Then Cas’s voice cuts through, crystal clear.

“I love you. I need you to come back to me. Please, Dean. Come back to me.”

Dean can’t quite believe what Cas is saying. It doesn’t make sense, not with how Dean had treated him.

Dean abruptly sits up and croaks, “Why?”

Cas blinks down at him. After a minute, a rare full smile, beatific, overtakes his face. “You’re awake!”

“Why?” Dean repeats. He has to know.

“Why what?”

“How could you—how could you even stand to look at me, let alone . . . love—” Dean almost chokes on the word. “—me.”

Cas furrows his brow. “I don’t understand. So much of who I am, it’s because of you, Dean.”

“But I put you through hell.”

Cas’s eyes grow mournful. “I did the same to you,” he says softly. “But I know you. I know that you’re good.” His eyes flit to Dean’s heart. “Righteous. We all make mistakes, Dean. It’s what we do afterward that matters. How we feel. Learn. Grow.” He reaches for Dean’s hand and squeezes. “You’ve done so much for me. It far outweighs any hurt you’ve inflicted. I’ve seen into your soul. I know all of who you are, and I love you.”

Dean stares at Cas. He still doesn’t understand how Cas could love him, but having his own feelings reflected back by the one he loves, someone he’d feared would be disgusted if he’d known the true nature of Dean’s feelings—it’s transcendent; it’s bliss. Hell, words can’t encompass everything Dean feels right now.

Dean can’t keep it in. “I love you, too.”

Just because he can, he cups Cas’s face in his hands and gazes into those ethereal blue eyes, filled to the brim with love. Cas leans forward with him, and their lips brush in the barest of presses. Still, Dean can taste the passion suffusing Cas’s lips, his person.

Dean can’t wait to explore the bond between them, to deepen it.

When he draws back, for the first time, he notices the others, who stand in a circle around Dean and Cas. So, he’d just confessed his undying love to Cas in front of them. Great.

Even though he would normally be embarrassed by this turn of events, Dean can’t find it in himself to care. Michael is gone, and Dean’s family is all right.

He glances at each of them in turn—Bobby, Jack, Mom, and Sam. They all beam back at him.

His eyes return to Cas, raking him in. In the illusion Michael had created for him, he’d slept with Cas. He can’t wait to do it in real life.

He marvels at what his family has accomplished. They’d defeated Michael and set him free. How? He’s definitely gonna grill them about it later. For now, he just wants to go back to the bunker, sleep for weeks, and spend time with everyone.

And of course, explore a new dimension in his relationship with Cas.

Dean interlaces his fingers with Cas’s and says, “Let’s go home.”


End file.
